


Hands of Fortune

by SheWhoWalksUnseen



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types, Sherlock (TV), The Heroes of Olympus - Rick Riordan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Eventual Fluff, Everyone's a potty mouth, John is so done with this shit, M/M, Olympus!Lock, POV John Watson, Post-Heroes of Olympus, Sherlock and Jim are little shits, Sorry Not Sorry, johniarty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-01
Updated: 2015-07-28
Packaged: 2018-02-05 15:26:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 31,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1823323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SheWhoWalksUnseen/pseuds/SheWhoWalksUnseen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson lived a somewhat normal life with his mum and older sister in Manhattan after moving there a year ago, but all that changed once the monster attacks had begun. Believing himself to be at fault for the chaos, he runs away and John finds himself discovering that in this world, mythology is NOT just a bunch of made-up stories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this crossover in mind for a while, but I wasn't sure how to write it. I've always loved the idea of "Sherlock" being set in this world and this may or may not end up becoming a series, based on how the plot turns out.  
> The entire story is in John's point of view, sorry, but that just makes things all the more entertaining, eh? This is set a few years after the "Heroes of Olympus" series, by the way, so none of those characters will be present (except for Chiron because he's awesome) and certain roles will be changed (that's all I'm going to say so as not to give away anything else).  
> (Yes, it this a Johniarty fic. Don't like, don't read; it is as simple as that)

 John was annoyed. No, sod it ― he was _beyond_ annoyed at this point. It had only been four days since he'd run away from home, away from the chaos that was his fault, and he had already been attacked by at least six different monsters. The whole situation was rather ironic considering the fact that the reason why he had run away in the first place was to escape these attacks, but he was _not_ amused. He was tired, sick of this, and in desperate need of a good hot bath.

 Why couldn't he have been an ordinary sixteen year old who had a normal family and a normal life? Why did he have such rotten luck?

 For the life of him, John couldn't find any answers to these questions.

 He was on the run once more, his backpack slung over one shoulder, trainers ( _sneakers_ , he corrected himself internally. Americans really had funny words for such simple everyday objects) hitting the pavement ferociously as he concentrated on losing his pursuers. They'd come out of nowhere this time, converging in the shadows, a shifting mass of three massive figures that John had immediately spotted as he'd walked down the street.

 He hated how no one would see the demonic creatures each and every _damn_ time he was forced to outrun them. How could they _not_ notice the gigantic hounds or the five-headed serpents chasing after one lone teenage boy?

  _Maybe I'm just mental,_ John thought to himself, rounding a corner as he shoved through the crowds of tourists. After all, considering the fact that nobody else saw the monsters, it was a highly probable explanation.

 Wait, no ― that wasn't true. There was one other person who had been able to see them: his older sister Harry. For some reason, their mum thought the two of them were making up the demonic creatures that always came after her son, which led to fierce arguments into the evening. It had only caused Harry to take up drinking, struggling to forget their tense home life and the monsters with each bottle of vodka. Still, at least Harry had believed him and hadn't dismissed his words as "delusional nightmares", as their mum put it.

 Grimacing at the memory of his sister, John tried to push any remorseful thoughts about his family aside. He could mourn for his sister later, when he wasn't about to die or be trampled underfoot by the eight foot tall giants racing down the street behind him.

 Heading for the street that had the least amount of pedestrians wandering about, he wondered if perhaps he could lose these infuriating things by taking the subway. They couldn't possibly fit down underground anyways, right? As long as they didn't hurt anyone, John was willing to try any sort of plan.

 A loud bellow came from behind, warning him that these creatures were clearly hungry and didn't seem to be bothered by pedestrians spotting them in broad daylight. Risking a glance back, he saw the three large heads looming above the crowds, sneering and carelessly throwing people aside as they searched for him. _How in hell were these things still following him?_

 That made up John's mind for him. He veered to the left, down the nearest passageway to the subway, and didn't slow his footsteps as he hurried further on. He didn't relax, even as he sat down inside the subway car minutes later, his heart in his throat.

 It was the first peaceful non-life-threatening moment John had had in a long time, but he knew that this didn't mean he could let his guard down. The giants might be waiting for him at the next stop, and then the chase would begin all over again. It was a never-ending cycle that he had come to accept after months of trying to destroy these infernal things (it didn't mean that he had to _like_ it, however).

  _Just enjoy it while you can,_ he told himself, shutting his eyes hesitantly to take a shaky breath. _Just enjoy this moment while it lasts, John._

He could feel himself slipping away, drifting off to sleep as exhaustion started to take hold, so John pinched himself roughly on the arm. A grimace flashed on his weary face as his eyes opened, trying to ignore the sudden sharp pain.

 An elderly woman near him raised an eyebrow at John's grimy clothes and wrinkled her nose at the foul scent rising off his unwashed body. She edged further away from the teenage boy, muttering something about street urchins, and John felt a smirk tug at his lips. It had been four days since his last shower, something he dearly missed, and he probably looked worse than he smelled, what with his dirty clothes and dark bags under his eyes. It wasn't much of a surprise that almost everyone near him was either edging away like the old woman or giving him the stink eye.

 Now that he was out of danger momentarily (John cringed inwardly at that word) it left him time to figure out where he would go next. He had been wandering around Manhattan for the past few days, trying unsuccessfully to avoid any and all monsters that might want to eat him. He hadn't really had much time to think about where he was actually going.

 He couldn't stay in the city forever, he would be cornered eventually and that was a thought he didn't wish to entertain. Unfortunately, John had no relatives in America other than his mum and Harry, which left him with no place to stay. When they had moved here from London to be closer to his mum's job, it was one of the many things that had irritated the sixteen year old. He didn't think of New York as his home, even though he had grown fonder of the city over time. Perhaps he could head back to England and try to convince one of his cousins to let him stay with them for a little while.

 Once that thought left his head, he wanted to throttle himself for thinking such a thing was possible. How could he burden his family members with these frequent attacks? No, he had to just keep running and see where his feet took him.

 By the time the subway was halfway to its destination, John's blue eyes had closed, sleep overtaking the boy's mind.

 

\---

 

 He could remember the night he ran away all too clearly in his head. It was only a week since the last day of school, which should have meant that John was able to sleep in for once, but fate had different ideas in mind. Early in the afternoon on his way to his friend Mike's apartment, he was ambushed by a snake-haired woman with talons for fingernails and narrowly escaped with his life (seriously, how did he attract monsters so easily?). He was exhausted by the time he returned home for dinner, making note in his head to not mention the assault to Harry; she was beginning to drink less so any mention of monsters might start her alcohol addiction up again.

 The three of them were quiet as they ate at the table, not making eye contact through the silence. John was lost in his thoughts, contemplating the cause of the most recent attack. This was the third one over the course of three months, and he was starting to worry about the safety of his mum and sister. What if the monsters came after them next? John was only able to elude the monsters, after all, never actually destroying them. For some reason, when he'd attempted to shoot one with the gun his mum kept hidden for emergencies, the bullet had merely passed through the creature.

 Mrs. Watson coughed deliberately, as if the silence was bothering her. Both of her children looked up in slight surprise at the sound, startled out of their individual thoughts.

 "So, John," she said conversationally, "how's Mike doing? You went over to his place, right?"

 John blinked at the surprising inquiry. "I, uh, yes. He's doing good, yeah..."

 "Oh, good."

 Another awkward pause filled the apartment.

 "Isn't Mike that odd bloke who likes comics?" Harry asked suddenly, raising an eyebrow.

 He was more surprised that Harry even knew who Mike was, considering how often she was drunk these days. "Yeah, that's him."

 Harry made a small sound he couldn't discern, looking back down at her potatoes tiredly. It was blatant that she was having as much fun as he currently was with this conversation.

 "That's unfortunate," Mrs. Watson piped up, a sympathetic look in her brown eyes. "Perhaps you should invite him over sometime, John. Does he ever get lonely?"

 John frowned slightly at this, although inviting Mike over didn't sound too terrible. It was mainly the worry of Harry being inebriated or having another argument while his friend was there that made him wary. Mike didn't know much about his home life, which was the way he preferred it. The less people knew about his strange life, the better.

 "Maybe, I don't know. Why the sudden interest in Mike, Mum?"

 She attempted to look innocent and hurt by this question, but it only made him more suspicious. "I can't ask about your social life anymore? I am your mum, John."

 "Just answer the question," John said, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned back in his chair. He could see Harry's eyes glancing up from her food, darting between the two of them.

 Mrs. Watson sighed, the dark circles under her eyes becoming more noticeable as she shut her eyes for a brief second. "You seem so lonely these days, sweetheart. Maybe it's because of summer or the lack of things to do, but it worries me. You just look so... _worried_ all the time and I haven't seen you smile in a while."

 Damn. She'd noticed his anxiety about the monsters. And here he'd thought that he had been doing a decent job of hiding it.

 "I'm fine, Mum." As much as he tried to sound casual and relaxed, John knew that she could sense the tension in his posture and the stiffness in his voice.

 "Bullshit," came the mumble from Harry, causing him to send her a weary glare. He _really_ didn't need this tonight, not after the attack earlier.

 "Don't swear at the table, Harriet," their mum said sternly, although her eyes did flit to John at the contradicting word. "John, sweetheart―"

 His temper flared up before he could stop himself. "Mum, I am _fine_ , alright? Nothing is wrong, I'm not lonely, leave me alone. Got it?"

 Her eyes narrowed angrily. "Don't mouth off to me, young man. I am just looking out for you."

 John couldn't help but scoff at this. "Right, sure. You certainly don't know a thing about me, then." Having had enough of this conversation, he stood, pushing his plate of half-eaten food back as he did so. "I'm going to bed, if you'll excuse me."

 "No, you are not." Mrs. Watson was growing more frustrated and angrier by the minute. "You are to finish your dinner with the rest of the family, young man."

 "Why? So you can tell me more about how I'm in desperate need of friendship?"

 The words came out more sarcastic than he had intended, but he didn't regret saying them. He was so sick of his mum's "advice" on how to make friends and how he was always so moody. He was perfectly content to have Mike as his only friend, thank you very much, so why couldn't she see this?

 "Don't talk back to me like that!" she scolded. "I am only trying to help you, John."

 John rolled his eyes and said, "Yes, I can see that, what with telling me that I'm delusional and lonely every time we strike up a conversation."

 As soon as he said it, he wished he could take back his words. Harry froze with her fork halfway to her mouth, eyes wide as she stared at her brother. Mrs. Watson stiffened as the silence thickened, the tense atmosphere weighing down on the three of them like a load of bricks.

 "I do not―"

 "Call me delusional?" John finished, not realizing that his hands were trembling. "Yes, you do, Mum. Or have you forgotten about that?"

 Something snapped inside Mrs. Watson's normally calm brown eyes. "I do not think _you_ are delusional, John. I think these nightmares about monsters you insist are real―"

 "They are!"

 "―are irrational! I'm not sure whether you do it for attention or what, but it has to stop."

 "Just because _you've_ never seen them doesn't mean that they don't exist!"

 "Things like that aren't real, John!" His mum was at her wit's end with him. "Monsters do not exist! Nothing is out to get you!"

 John snorted, remembering the afternoon attack. "Oh, really? If so, what was that thing that cornered me on the way to Mike's today, hmm?"

 Harry choked as she attempted to swallow her potatoes. " _You were attacked?_ "

 He tried to send her a reassuring look to let her know he wasn't hurt, but it didn't make him feel any less guilty when he saw the horror in his sister's eyes.

 "Listen to you both! There are no monsters out to get your brother, Harry dear."

 "Mum, I've seen one of those bloody demons," Harry said, gripping her fork with white knuckles. "As much as I'd like to think they aren't real, they _are._ John's not mental."

 "Thanks." He tried to sound teasing, but relief at the fact that his sister was standing up for him was the only thing he registered.

 Mrs. Watson muttered something under her breath before speaking louder. "I can't take this! What am I supposed to do with you both?" With that, she stood and hurried to her room.

 John recalled attempting to sleep that night, only to come to the decision that his family would be safer without him leading the monsters home. He had packed some food and a change of clothes into a backpack before climbing out the window, down the fire escape, and heading away to distance himself from the only family he had left.

  _It's for their protection,_ he tried to tell himself as he walked through Central Park later that night. He only hoped this whole endeavor would be worth it.

 

\---

 

 Awakening with a jolt at the sound of passengers leaving the subway, John rubbed his tired eyes before joining the crowd. He kept a constant eye on the shadows, knowing that the giants would think nothing of attacking in public, especially since nobody appeared to see them. To his shock, nothing life-threatening leapt out of the shadows and he soon found himself standing outside, unharmed and alive.

  _I must have lost them,_ John thought happily, although he knew that the feeling wouldn't last. More monsters were bound to come, so he had to get a move on.

 He headed down the street, ignoring the dirty looks people he passed sent him. There was an alley not too far off, perhaps he would rest there for the night. It was about dinner time, by the look of how backed up traffic was becoming, and already his stomach was growling. John sighed at the faint sound, checking both ways to make sure he wasn't being followed before ducking into the alley.

 It appeared abandoned at the moment, which was little relief for the exhausted blond, and he immediately set out on the task of making a inconspicuous-looking shelter of cardboard boxes. It was a bit lopsided, but it would do for now. He wasn't planning on _living_ in the makeshift box shelter anyways.

 Another sigh escaped John's lips as he plopped himself down underneath the boxes, rummaging through his backpack for any food he might have left. Despite packing the bag before he had left home, he had underestimated just how much food he would need, which was now the cause of his severe lack of food. With his rotten luck, John would be starving within the next two days.

  _Bloody brilliant._ He tried to shove the fear of starving out of his head, instead focusing on eating his stale biscuits. After all, he had to keep up his strength to outrun these demonic creatures.

 For how long, though? How long would it be before he was cornered by a monster, with no escape?

 John wasn't an optimist, he preferred to dwell on the aspects of reality that mattered. He knew that this strategy of running wouldn't last forever (hell, it was barely workable _now_ ) and he knew he would face the consequences soon enough if he didn't do something quickly. Sadly, he had no other plan at the moment. These creatures couldn't be killed, but he couldn't outrun them for the rest of his life; it was a never-ending cycle that infuriated him to no end.

 If this was someone's idea of a joke, it certainly wasn't amusing to John Watson. All he wanted was to be normal and never see another bloody monster again.

 Fate clearly had different plans for him though, a thought that made him shut his eyes slowly as if this would help him accept this fact. It didn't work, not that he had expected it to.

 It was about an hour later before John realized his luck had run out. He was laying on his back under the shelter he had attempted to make when he heard an all-too-familiar growl farther into the alley. A good number of dirty words came to mind as he scrambled to get out of the shelter, knowing that he wouldn't be sleeping for a while tonight if he managed to escape.

 Glancing into the alley, he made out the shape of a wolf-like creature, black as night. It was almost twice the size of a wolf, however, with dark eyes that locked onto his with ferocity that made John's knees feel like pudding. He didn't want to know what kind of appetite the creature had; he was fairly sure he knew what its favorite snack was by the ravenous look in its eyes.

 "Right, well... I'd better be going," John said weakly, grabbing his backpack with sweaty palms.

 A low growl reached his ears, warning him that the thing was about to pounce, and he bolted, rounding the corner and running back into the busy streets of Manhattan. For once, he didn't worry about being polite as he shoved through the crowds, hearing the monster howling not too far back. The glares and protests were insignificant as he nearly tackled a young red-haired woman in order to get past.

 How was he going to lose this thing? It could easily track John down by following his scent, which wasn't a pleasant thought. Perhaps he could find a nice restaurant to run inside and distract the beast with the aroma of meat that probably smelled a lot better than he did at the minute. That plan would depend on how intelligent his current pursuer was, though. He'd encountered some of the easiest monsters to trick, but then there had also been those who actually had brains smart enough to ruin his strategies.

  _Only one way to find out,_ he thought to himself grimly, his eyes searching for the nearest restaurant, preferably one that served steak.

 Without any warning, he ran into someone, tumbling to the ground hard. John mumbled a soft apology, struggling to get to his feet. However before he could run off, a hand grabbed his arm tightly.

 Sudden panic filled his head as he writhed in the tight grip, glancing back to see the beast not far away as it charged through the crowds of pedestrians. "Let go!" John turned to the person, fully prepared to deliver a good punch to the face if it meant he was freed, and was greeted by a pair of pale eyes (he couldn't tell what colour they were: green? Blue?) belonging to a teenage boy about his age who appeared to be studying him.

 "Look, I don't know who you are, but you have to let go of me!" John tried to reason with him, tugging harder at his restrained wrist. The wolf-like creature was not a hundred yards from them. He was running out of time.

 "So you can continue running from the hellhound?"

 The teenager's voice was low, his accent British, and the words caught John off-guard. He froze, looking hard at the pale boy's face, trying to make sure he'd heard him correctly.

 "I-Wait, the what? How do you―?"

 "You keep looking back, clearly scared of something, and while a regular mortal would only see a busy crowd on a busy street, you must be able to see the black hound running through the crowd, yes?"

 John's heart fluttered at his words, unsure how to react as he momentarily forgot the danger he was in. "You see it too?"

 The boy scoffed, releasing the wrist he had been holding. "Of course. Now, stay here since you obviously have no way of killing the hellhound."

 Before John could say another word, the creature (what was it called? A hellhound?) leapt at the two of them and the strange boy moved quickly, pulling a pen from his pocket and uncapping it. A flash of light blurred in the boy's hands as he swung at the hellhound, and the monster let out a howl as it dissolved in midair, dust raining down on the two of them.

 John stared, mouth agape, at where the pen was―should have been―in the stranger's hand. Instead of a pen, it had elongated into a bronze sword with a black leather grip.

  _Yes, I have definitely gone crazy._ He looked around quickly, wondering whether anyone had seen this strange attack. To his surprise (although he really should have expected this by now), no one had looked in their direction. Everyone around the two dust-covered teenagers were just walking past, moving onward in their blissfully ordinary lives. John looked back at the sword, catching his reflection staring back at him with wide blue eyes and his jaw still open in shock.

 "Amazing." Did he really just say that aloud?

 Apparently he had. The mysterious boy raised an eyebrow, as if genuinely surprised by his exclamation. He hadn't expected John to be impressed, although he didn't seem shocked by the fact that he was frozen in place with astonishment. Who _was_ this stranger?

 "Follow me," the boy said, pressing down on the hilt and causing the sword to shrink back into a pen. He began to head back the way John had come without a word, obviously expecting him to follow.

 "Wait a minute," he called, still suspicious of the teenager. "I don't even know who you are and you expect me to follow you?"

 The pale-eyed boy turned, amusement written all over his face. "The name's Sherlock Holmes and if you want to survive, you must follow me. Unless, of course, you'd prefer to be eaten by another hellhound...?"

 John opened his mouth to argue, but quickly shut it once he realized the boy had a point. He clearly seemed to know all about these monsters, was able to kill them, and he must be able to tell that John had nowhere to go. Plus, he was more than a little bit intrigued by Sherlock and that impressive display.

 "Coming?" prompted Sherlock, watching the blond struggle to make a decision.

 "Oh, god, yes," muttered John, hurrying after the dark-haired stranger.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John and his new companion find time to chat, and arrive at their destination.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if I make Sherlock and Chiron a bit OOC, although I'm trying my hardest to prevent that. I believe I chose everyone's godly parents accurately enough, so if you see one that you disagree with, sorry. This is just my take on how things could turn out with certain characters in this particular world.

 "How much do you know?" Sherlock said, the first words he had spoken since telling John to follow him. They were currently in a cab, heading to god-knows-where. In retrospect, it wasn't smartest thing John had done, but at the moment he was more focused on finding out the truth.

 "About what? The monsters?"

 Sherlock sighed, as if he were being deliberately ignorant. "About everything. Not just the monsters, about who you are, who your parent is."

 John had never felt more confused in his life. He frowned and opened his mouth to say so, but his new companion beat him to it with another sigh. "Well, that answers everything. Clearly you have no idea why you're being attacked nor about who your parent is. Am I correct?"

 "Uh, yes... Wait, _parent_? What does that mean?"

 "It means either your mum or dad is not who they say there are." The strange boy tilted his head to the side slightly as he studied John. "Or one of them is simply not present in your life, judging by the twitch in your left eye."

 "My dad left after I was born," John admitted, unsure how he could know that. "What does that have to do with anything, though? What does that have to do with the dog?"

 "Hellhound," corrected Sherlock. "And it has _everything_ to do with this. I am assuming you are educated somewhat in mythology?"

 The blond nodded, recalling how he had learned a little of it in school. "Well, to put things bluntly, the gods you learned of are real and still exist today. They occasionally visit the mortal world and have children, which are demigods. That is what we are."

 John blinked in surprise. "I'm sorry, 'we'?"

 "Yes, I mean the both of us," Sherlock said, a little annoyed. "One of your parents, probably your father, is a god and your mother is a mortal, so that makes you a demigod. Half god, half mortal."

 John's head spun from all of this information. The boy was talking so fast that he was having a difficult time processing everything, growing more animated as he spoke. "How is that possible? Those gods are just myths."

 This earned him a dark look. "What is your name?"

 "John Watson."

 "How would you feel if someone called _you_ a myth in a couple hundred years, John?"

 John sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Alright, I get your point, but that doesn't mean any of this is true! What does it have to do with the monsters, anyway?"

 The dark-haired boy sighed as if this was primary school knowledge, but explained patiently, "Monsters pick up on your scent, which grows stronger the more you know about your identity, and they will try to kill you. It is typical for all demigods and happens more than once in their lives."

 "You expect me to believe that my dad is some god and that monsters are attacking me because of how I smell?" John couldn't help but sound incredulous at the preposterous idea of being related to a mythical god. There was no way that _he_ could ever be the son of some almighty spirit.

 "Yes. It is the truth."

 John snorted. "Sounds like a well-rehearsed story to me."

 "It is as true as the fact that you have ADHD and dyslexia, hence why you can't sit still or focus or read properly. Your brain is hardwired for a different kind of language, Ancient Greek, which is why it is difficult to read. As for the ADHD, those are your battle reflexes. Without those, you would not be alive still."

 John opened his mouth in shock, about to ask how he knew this, but the boy kept talking. "This 'story' is as true as the fact that you have been kicked out of a couple of schools in your life, no more than two because you do not seem like the type to frequently act out against monster attacks."

 "How―?"

 "Either that is because the attacks were not as frequent until you ran away or all of the attacks began recently, perhaps a few months ago. This is probably because no monsters had picked up on your scent until then, and I can tell because if they had begun over the course of a couple years, you would have run away a lot sooner. Something must have driven you to run, then, some sort of motivation."

 "Well, look―"

 "Not another attack, no, perhaps a problem at home? Judging by that, a person like you would be determined to protect people that you care about, so you're close to them. You ran away to protect them but you got into an argument, probably about the attacks."

 Okay, that was rather scary. How did he know about that last night?

 "Does this all still sound like a 'well-rehearsed story', John?" Sherlock's pale eyes were locked on his, a smug glint peeking through for a moment.

 "How could you possibly know about the argument?" John asked, his voice surprisingly hoarse. "How did you know about _any_ of that?"

 Sherlock merely shrugged, looking out the window to watch the night sky. "Most of those things happen to all demigods, John. We usually end up running away or chased by some monster. You didn't get the worst luck though, given the circumstances. Some of us end up expelled from many schools and attacked much more frequently. Why did they begin now, though? You're over thirteen and you don't appear to be a child of the Big Three."

 "Big Three?" John rubbed his forehead in attempt to relieve the headache he was getting from this complicated explanation.

 "The three most powerful gods in all of Olympus: Zeus, Poseidon, and Hades," Sherlock said in almost a bored tone. "They don't usually have children, and when they do they are very powerful. The gods all promised to claim their children by the time they turned thirteen as well, yet here you are... Something isn't right."

 John thought back to what little he knew of mythology, trying to place the names that this stranger had said. _Those are Greek gods, aren't they?_ He couldn't help but smile slightly; he knew a fair amount about Greek mythology. At least he had some idea of what Sherlock was talking about now.

 That didn't mean he fully believed him, of course. It was a crazy story: Greek gods siring children and leaving them to be hunted down by monsters? He almost wanted to laugh.

 Almost.

 Because, unfortunately, Sherlock was right about everything he had rattled off earlier. He _did_ have ADHD and dyslexia. He _had_ been expelled before because of a monster (who had apparently been pretending to be his Biology teacher). The story was told with enough truths that it was somewhat believable, and he couldn't help but wonder if perhaps it was true. After all, the monsters were real, so why wouldn't gods be at this rate?

 "Still don't believe?" The words made John jump and turn to look at the dark-haired boy. He must have zoned out for a while.

 "I don't know. It's a lot to believe in," he answered carefully. "Then again, my mum didn't believe me or my sister when I told her about the monsters so maybe it is real."

 Sherlock glanced over, an eyebrow raised a little to show interest. "You have a sister? Older or younger?"

 "She's older."

 "She can see the monsters too?"

 "Yeah, but they never attack her. Only me." John's words came out more bitter than he had intended.

 "Most likely a mortal who can see through the Mist, then," Sherlock said, steepling his hands under his chin. "Your mum must not be able to, obviously."

 "The what, sorry?" John couldn't help but feel incredibly dense.

 "The Mist. It's a force that alters a mortal's vision when it pertains to our world. Most mortal minds are dull and cannot comprehend things such as hellhound and gods upon sight, so the Mist replaces them with things they _can_ understand. Some mortals like your sister though, can see through the Mist and see everything that we do."

 John frowned as he thought this over. It did make sense that Harry could be one of those clear-sighted mortals Sherlock was talking about. The realization that his mum would never believe them because she would never be able to see the monsters made him melancholy, though. He recalled how upset she had been during their fight and suppressed a sigh.

 He faintly wondered how they both were faring now that he was gone. Had Harry begun drinking again? Were they arguing often? The former was most likely true, which caused his heart to ache with guilt.

  _They're both safe now._ John tried to convince himself of this as he glanced out the window of the cab. _You' re protecting them._

 John awkwardly cleared his throat in the brief silence. "So, um, do these attacks ever... I don't know, _stop_?"

 Sherlock looked at him and the response was showing clearly in his expression. "If they did, more of us would be alive."

 "That's a cheerful thought," the blond mumbled, his heart sinking.

 He could have sworn that his companion's eyes softened a tad at that comment. "John, being a demigod is hell, to put it honestly. We don't choose to be who we are, we are born this way. The monsters will never stop hunting any of us. The only thing you can do is learn to fight them and destroy them."

 "They can't die, though!" John cried. "The only time I have ever seen one die was when you killed that hound!"

 "Only certain metals can destroy monsters," explained Sherlock. "I didn't kill that hellhound, though. I only sent it to Tartarus where it will eventually reform and come back. If we're lucky, it will be years before that particular monster reforms."

 "With my luck, it will only take about a week."

 Sherlock smirked. "It would seem we have the same luck."

 John snorted at that and shook his head. Sherlock appeared to be suppressing a small smile, which made his heart soften. He pictured himself having fought monsters with this strange knowledge of being the son of some almighty god meant you were always going to be on a monster's menu. Demigods certainly had to be the unluckiest people on the planet if this was their whole life in a nutshell.

 "So where exactly _are_ we going?" John asked after a minute.

 Sherlock was silent for a moment, probably trying to think of a way to properly explain wherever they were going. "Camp Half-Blood. It's a safe haven for people like us."

 "Where is it?" John tried to picture a secret hideaway filled with demigods, wondering just how many there could possibly be.

 "Long Island."

 His jaw dropped before he could stop it. " _Long Island_?"

 "Yes." Sherlock appeared confused by the blond's surprise. "Where did you think we were going? London?"

 "Well, no, I just―"

 "I should have summoned the Grey Sisters' taxi. Much quicker service, though they can be rather rude." Sherlock looked at their cab's driver with disdain, as if wishing he didn't drive so slow.

 "Hang on!" John snapped, holding up a hand to get the boy to focus on him. "Why Long Island?"

 Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It's quite obvious, John. Long Island is where Camp Half-Blood is."

 "That close?"

 "Yes..."

 John frowned. He was growing irritable with the knowledge that he knew absolutely nothing about this weird world.

 "Why―?"

 "Why Long Island? Because that is where it is. It has moved with Western Civilization over centuries and now it's in New York."

 "How do you keep any of this straight?" John moaned, running his hands over his face.

 Sherlock shrugged. "You get used to it."

 "How long have you been getting used to it? At Camp Half-Blood, I mean."

 Judging by the dark look in his eyes, John had asked the wrong question. "Longer than most."

 "Oh." What was he supposed to say to that?

 "Most stay until they can make a living in the mortal world and are trained well enough to fight the monsters. If you arrived at Camp Half-Blood when you were thirteen ― which you didn't ― you would probably stay a few years. For the children of the more powerful gods, you'll probably stay longer."

 John was hesitant to ask his next question. "Are you, then?"

 "Am I what?"

 "Uh, a child of a powerful god?"

 Sherlock was silent for a while, which made John both uneasy and worried. For a moment, he wondered if he had fallen asleep and was tempted to test this theory before he heard the soft answer. "Yes."

 John would have been genuinely surprised if he had said no; the pale boy had this sort of aura about him that made his skin feel prickly. "Who's your parent?"

 Another pause, although this one was much shorter. "Hades."

 It took a moment before the name registered in his brain. That was the god of the Underworld, he remembered, and Sherlock had said that he was one of those 'Big Three' gods. He couldn't help but wonder whether this was a bad thing or not. Being the son of the god of the dead didn't seem particularly well-rewarding.

 "Cool, I guess."

 "Who were you expecting?" This question threw John for a second.

 "Uh, I don't know. You just don't seem like a child of Hades, I suppose..."

 Sherlock glanced at him, his expression unreadable for once. "That's not what people normally say."

  _Well, normal people aren't the offspring of Greek gods._ "What do they normally say?"

 "Piss off, freak."

 John couldn't ever remember why he did it, nor would he wonder too much about it, but as Sherlock said those three words, he laughed for the first time in four days.

 

\---

 

 By the time they did reach this mysterious camp, John was having a difficult time keeping his eyes open. Sleep sounded like an excellent idea to him, but Sherlock wouldn't allow him to nap ("We're getting closer, John. You need to be awake when we get there.") so he was forced to try and find ways to stay alert. Once Sherlock paid the cab driver (where he got that much cash John didn't know) and they had climbed up a hill at the taller boy's insistence, they both found themselves before a great pine tree with some sort of fleece on its boughs.

 "Down there's the camp," Sherlock told him, gesturing to the camp that was slightly downhill from the tree. John couldn't help but suck in a deep breath at the sight.

 Even at night, he could tell the camp was large. There were at least twenty cabins in a half circle near the center, with two cabins jutting out on each side. No one appeared to be out and about, but it was easier to picture how busy this place was in daylight. The scent of strawberries was drifting to his nose, causing a smile to unconsciously make its way to his lips. It seemed unusually peaceful, and John wondered if this was how everyone felt when they first arrived.

 "C'mon, John." Sherlock's voice snapped him out of his thoughts, the dark-haired boy already making his way down towards the camp. John quickly hurried after him, suddenly wondering if he could explore the place in the morning.

 Navigating their way through the camp at night was not quite as peaceful as it had appeared. As they walked, John could see that some people were walking around and stopped abruptly when they saw the two boys. Pointing and whispering soon ensued, and it made him feel uncomfortable.

 If Sherlock noticed, he said nothing of it. He was walking ahead of the blond, not appearing to be focused on anything other than getting to his destination.

 A girl with brown hair was sitting near one of the cabins, seeming to be reading with a torch (no, flashlight, John corrected). She glanced up when they walked past and gave John a small tentative smile.

 John returned the smile before running to catch up to Sherlock. He noted also that the girl glanced at Sherlock with a funny expression, but quickly forgot about it in a minute or two.

 They came to a large sky-blue house with a porch that wrapped around it. One of the windows was aglow with light, indicating that someone was awake inside. Sherlock immediately headed inside, with John soon to follow, and they found themselves in a well-furnished room where a desk sat at the back. Despite the lamp on the desk being on, no one was in the room.

 "I'll find Chiron and tell him you're here," Sherlock said. "It shouldn't be long."

 Before he could inquire as to who Chiron was, the boy turned and walked away down the hall.

 "Right," John muttered. He tried not to feel abashed by the fact that he was supposed to sit and wait. After all, for all he knew this Chiron could be temperamental and dislike late-night visitors.

 He tried to occupy his thoughts while he sat and waited. While all of what Sherlock said sounded believable, he still had his doubts. There was no way _he_ was the child of some _god._ John's life wasn't normal, yes, but he didn't really have any magnificent powers...or whatever demigods were capable of.

  _No wonder my father left. Who'd want_ me _as their son?_ John thought bitterly.

 A sound suspiciously like rubber wheels came to his ears after a minute and he sat up straighter in the chair, straining his ears for any sign of Sherlock. Instead, a man with dark hair and a kind smile in a wheelchair came into the room. John tried not to feel disappointed.

 "You're Chiron?" It came out more as a question than a statement.

 The man chuckled. "Yes, I am. I assume Sherlock has told you a bit about our camp?"

 "Yeah, a little."

 "Good. I am the Camp Director, by the way. How much has Sherlock told you about the gods?"

 John rubbed the back of his neck, trying not to feel a bit uncomfortable. This was all still new to him. "Not much. Just about demigods and monsters, really."

 A sudden thought occurred to him as he finished speaking. "Wait, Chiron as in _the_ Chiron? The centaur?"

 Chiron seemed amused. "Yes, that would be me."

 "But you're..." John didn't know how to finish his sentence without sounding rude.

 "Human? Alas, this is merely my mortal form. I assumed that if I trotted in with the lower half of a horse that you would be frightened. Wouldn't be the best first impression, no?"

 "Oh. Uh, no," John muttered. He imagined this man with the lower half of a horse and wondered where he kept his body hidden.

 Sherlock chose that moment to return, nodding at John before standing near Chiron. He noticed that the tall boy's hands were twitching, like he was eager to get all of the explaining done, and the intense look he was directing at John was slightly unnerving. It was as if he were attempting to dissect the teen's thoughts.

 "Well, John," Chiron said, snapping the blond out of his thoughts, "I cannot say how pleased I am to see that you are alive. We haven't had an unregistered demigod in quite some time, and often retrieving them doesn't go as planned. Thankfully Sherlock was there to direct you here."

 "Perhaps a son of Ares." The small murmur brought his attention to Sherlock once more, who was studying him still. He appeared to be talking to himself. "Not the best build, but it's possible."

 Chiron sighed as if this were normal. "Sherlock, not now, please."

 "Chiron, if we can deduce who his father is―"

 "Sherlock." It was a little frightening when the friendly look vanished altogether from the centaur's face.

 The two stared each other down, neither one relenting, and John felt out-of-place as this went on for a moment or so. He swallowed uncomfortably as he watched the two of them fiercely glare at the other.

 It was Sherlock, surprisingly, who looked away first. He was dissatisfied, but remained quiet.

 Chiron sighed, the friendly look slowly returning as he turned back to John.

 "Anyway, I am sure you're tired after everything so we should find a place for you to sleep until you are claimed or we figure out who your father is. Unfortunately we do not have enough room in the Hermes cabin at the moment. Like I said, we haven't had an unregistered demigod for some time."

 John tried not to feel put out by that last comment. After all, it wasn't _his_ fault his godly father had decided to ignore him.

 "He could stay in my cabin for the time being." His eyes widened as he turned to stare at Sherlock.

 "Sherlock," Chiron started to say, his eyes narrowing a little in warning.

 The dark-haired boy would not back down this time. "I'm the only person in my cabin and no one will bother him there. There's an extra bed and I'm sure he wouldn't mind."

 He glanced at John, silently asking for his permission. John knew this offer didn't come from the kindness in his heart, and he could tell Chiron didn't buy it either. He probably just wanted to study him some more.

 Still, he _was_ exhausted and sleep sounded really good. Besides, what could go wrong?

 "I wouldn't mind," John agreed after a brief moment.

 The centaur sighed. "I suppose your father will have claimed you by tomorrow anyway. Everyone should be heading to bed soon. Dinner ended about an hour ago. I must inform Olympus of this. Goodnight, John, and welcome to Camp Half-Blood."

 He wheeled himself out of the room, but not before sending the son of Hades a look that clearly said: _Leave him be._

 Sherlock turned to look at John the moment the older man left the room. "Are you bothered by the violin?"

 The question was so sudden that it took him by surprise. "Sorry, what?"

 "Are you bothered by the violin? I play the violin sometimes in the morning."

 "Uh, no..."

 "Excellent." Sherlock's smile wasn't very reassuring. "Shall we?"

 John hesitated at the gesture to the door, but nodded and followed dutifully. What on earth had he gotten himself into?


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John listens to the violin, and the truth comes to light.

  _He couldn't see anything. He was drowning in a churning ocean, black as night, and his lungs were screaming for oxygen. He was being dragged downward by the strong currents. Fighting did no good, only ensuring his death as the tugging grew stronger._

_He fought back against the panic, his arms and legs flailing in the black sea wildly. It was almost as if he couldn't control his own body._

_"This isn't the end," whispered a voice in his ear. John faintly wondered if it was his conscience speaking. "You're not going to die, John. Trust me."_

_He wanted to scream that he even know who was talking, so why should he trust them? They weren't the one drowning, after all. Instead, he struggled to reach the surface, wherever it was. He couldn't tell which was up or down._

_"Don't fight it, John." The voice was insistent now, and while it sounded soothing, he didn't trust it._

_John ignored them again, attempting to reach out as spots danced across his vision. His lungs were going to give out at any moment now. Despair clutched at his heart, cold and firm._

_"I'm protecting you. You're not dying, you have to trust me. Please."_

_No. No, he was definitely dying._

_"John, trust me."_

_He didn't trust this voice, but as he unwillingly opened his mouth as the pressure on his lungs grew too great, he prayed that it would end._

_"John."_

_Why wouldn't it leave him alone? He wanted to tell the voice to let him drown in peace, but he was currently inhaling dark ocean water._

_"Trust me, John! You're going to be alright!"_

_Like hell! He could feel the hands of death clawing at his heart._

_"Trust me!"_

 And then John awoke, following which he nearly had a heart attack. He was sleeping in a bed in almost total darkness, save for the flickering green torches hanging near a doorway. There were no windows, and he suddenly felt claustrophobic. It was a bit like his nightmare, only he wasn't drowning.

 It took another moment before his memory returned and he recalled the events from the night before. The hellhound, Sherlock, Chiron, Camp Half-Blood...

 He almost snorted. "Not a dream, then."

 "Why would it be?"

 The reply startled him, causing John to suck in a breath sharply, shutting his eyes to calm his heart. "Geez, Sherlock!"

 His eyes were starting to adjust to the darkness better. He could make out the outline of the teen sitting up on a bed across the cabin. It looked like he was sitting cross-legged with his hands folded under his chin.

 "How long have you been awake?" John asked, rubbing his eyes. Why there were no damn windows in the bloody cabin, he did not know.

 It looked like Sherlock was shrugging. "A couple hours, I believe. It is about seven in the morning."

 So much for sleeping in. "Have you been sitting there the whole time watching me sleep?"

 "Not the whole time."

 That didn't make John feel any less uncomfortable. "I know you only want me in your cabin to...do whatever you've been doing, but watching me while I sleep won't help you."

 "Your eyes aren't adjusted to the dark yet."

 "Sorry, what?" This threw the blond off for a second.

 "My eyes have adjusted to the dark easily, most likely because of my parentage. Yours, however, are still adjusting and are finding it difficult to do so. Why is that?"

 John shrugged, unsure how the boy could see his eyes from across the room. "I don't know... I'm not a son of Hades, after all. Mine won't adjust like yours, Sherlock."

 Sherlock was silent for a moment. The silence was uneasy and John fidgeted on the bed, his ADHD not allowing him to stay still for long. He realized that the teen was still looking at him with that intense stare and sighed. Why was he so determined to figure out who his father was? It wasn't as if the god would pop into the cabin and introduce himself or give a call to say he was John's father.

 Nevertheless, he was still staring. John wondered if this was why most people disliked the boy. Did he normally attempt to tell them everything he had come up with about their lives when they first met?

 Considering the fact that Sherlock had seemed so surprised when John hadn't insulted him, he took that as a yes.

 "How do you do that?" he asked when he couldn't stand the silence anymore.

 "Do what?"

"Oh, you know... Where you just look at someone and know all these things about them?"

 His vision was good enough that he could tell Sherlock seemed amused. "I merely observe. For instance, judging by your haste to wake up, you were having a nightmare. Presumably one about monsters or something frightening."

 John nearly groaned. "Yes, I did. I'm not going to describe it to you, though. And no, you can't describe it to me judging on what you...observe."

 A smirk was visible on the dark-haired teen's lips. He didn't say anything though, which made him relax a little. He seemed to respect John's wishes.

 John managed to will his tired bones to move, getting out of bed as he felt Sherlock's eyes following him (he really wasn't going to get used to this kid). A groan escaped him softly as he realized he had slept in his clothes from the previous night. _Brilliant._ He stretched for a moment, trying to get some feeling back in his legs. It suddenly struck him as strange that this was the first time since he had run away from home that he wasn't being awoken rudely by some hungry beast. It was the first calm morning in what felt like ages.

 He could definitely get used to this. A smile tugged at his lips as he forgot about his temporary cabin mate. Already this place was seeming more and more appealing.

 Sometime last night, probably before he had gone with Sherlock to the cabin, John had chosen to accept this weird new world. Everything seemed to be making sense and it clearly wasn't some bizarre dream. There didn't appear to be any point in denying the fact that demigods existed.

 In the corner of the cabin, a table caught his eye. He noticed there were sheets littered all over it and one small pile had a skull resting on top of it. Feeling Sherlock's intense gaze on him still, he decided not to mention the skull. Perhaps it was a gift from his godly parent? The thought almost made him snort.

 John walked over to the table, his eyes nearly adjusted to everything now in the dark. He picked up one of the sheets and heard Sherlock shifting his weight on the bed. Was he bothered by this stranger touching his stuff?

 When no move was made to stop him, John glanced at the music. Recalling the question of whether he would be bothered by the violin, he realized this must be what Sherlock meant. Another glance caused him to see the violin case resting near the table, confirming his thoughts.

 A couple of smeared notes near the bottom made him frown. His eyes drifted to the pen resting on the table (not the one that had transformed into a sword, he noted to himself) and a thought made him hesitate.

 "Sherlock?"

 A small sound of acknowledgment was his response.

 "Did you... Did you compose this?" He was a little afraid to ask the question, his voice cracking embarrassingly as he finished speaking. Still, he found that he couldn't tear his eyes away from the paper, tracing notes with his fingertips.

 "Yes."

 John met the pale eyes of his cabin mate and saw a flicker of something in the depths of his gaze. The only thing he could think to say was, "You weren't kidding when you said you played the violin."

 Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "You thought I was?"

 "What? No, I didn't. I just... This looks really good, that's all."

 A small pause came before Sherlock responded. "Really?"

 John wondered if anyone had ever complimented his music before. Then he remembered who he was thinking about and fought back a laugh. No, Sherlock didn't seem like the type to receive compliments often. Maybe John was the only person who knew the son of Hades played the violin in the first place.

 That was a slightly depressing thought.

 "Yes, really."

 There was a moment of tense hesitation before either of them moved. Sherlock slid off his bed in one swift motion, walking toward the table. John set the sheet music back on the table and moved out of the way as the dark-haired boy walked past. To his surprise, Sherlock withdrew the violin from its case on the ground and raised the bow to the strings wordlessly.

 John couldn't help but stare open-mouthed at him as he began to play. The music was soft and startlingly gentle, starting off rather slow but soon picking up speed. It was almost haunting, the way Sherlock played the instrument. The melody reminded him of an old song his schoolteacher had taught his class, bringing back memories of his childhood, when he and Harry got along better.

 He watched Sherlock walk about the cabin as he played, noting that his pale eyes were shut yet he never bumped into anything. He seemed lost in the music and John wondered what he could be thinking of. Did the music bring back memories for him too?

 Then something odd happened. John was listening to his cabin mate perform his personal composition, but soon he realized that as the music grew louder, he could tell every note the boy was playing. A sharp tapping against his thigh made him glance down faintly in confusion. His fingers were tapping along with the melody Sherlock played in perfect synchronization, which was a little unnerving.

 The strange part was that he wasn't moving his fingers. It was as if something else had taken control of John's hand and decided to tap along to the music.

 It became difficult to concentrate with both the insistent drumming _and_ the violin's melody taking up his focus. Sherlock didn't seem to notice for once and continued playing as John attempted to control his hand. Music notes swirled ferociously around in his head, a light heat stirring in his heart as the music quieted slightly.

  _What the bloody hell is happening to me?_ The question circled in his brain, nagging at him.

 Finally, Sherlock paused, his eyes opening and immediately darting to the blond. Thankfully John's fingers stilled and he hurriedly thrust that particular hand into his pocket.

 "S-So, you wrote that?" he asked, trying not to look relieved that he had stopped playing.

 The boy nodded curtly. John realized he looked unsure about what to do or say. This only confirmed his suspicions of Sherlock not receiving praise often.

 "Well, it was bloody brilliant," John said honestly. "Really, it was."

 Sherlock studied his face, as if trying to decipher his words and translate them into something he could comprehend easier. The idea of this made John smile and shake his head. The fact that someone intelligent and observant like him was having this much trouble understanding a simple compliment was a little heartwarming, in a way.

 Instead of saying a thank you, he removed the violin from under his chin and moved past John again to put the instrument away. John watched his cabin mate with the smile still present on his face and didn't flinch when those intense eyes stared him down for the umpteenth time that morning. They didn't seem quite so formidable this time, more puzzled and curious now.

 "Breakfast will be starting soon, you should go eat." John's smile vanished as the words sank in.

 "Hold on, what about you? Aren't you going to eat?"

 Sherlock waved a hand dismissively, turning away. "I need to think. Besides, I don't usually go to breakfast anyway."

 This comment only served to confuse the blond. "Why?"

 "It isn't required." Sherlock raised an eyebrow as he flopped back onto his bed. "Why do you care?"

 "Sherlock, you are supposed to eat breakfast. It's not something you should ignore. That's not healthy, skipping meals."

 A snort was the reply to his concerns. John could feel a seed of anger burrowing itself into his heart. Why was he being so infuriating about something so simple?

 "John, I only eat when I feel like I must," said the dark-haired boy after a moment.

 Was that supposed to reassure him? "And I'll ask again: _why_? You have to eat _something_."

 "You honestly care?" Sherlock's eyebrow was still raised.

 "Yes!" John felt like a broken record, repeating his thoughts over and over. "Besides, do you expect me just to wander around looking for a place to sit and eat alone?"

 Sherlock actually laughed at that. When he saw the confusion written on the other demigod's face, he explained, "You sit with your cabin members at every meal. You likely won't be eating alone. You'd be eating with the Hermes cabin, I believe. That's where the unclaimed demigods sit."

 A sudden understanding made him freeze. If all of the cabins were supposed to be eating with their brothers and sisters... That meant Sherlock always ate alone.

 Without meaning to, he felt a rush of pity for this strange teenager. He wondered if he would be eating alone too after he found out who his father was.

 This new knowledge still didn't weaken John's resolve. In fact, it merely strengthened it. "I'm not going down there so you can sit in here and think."

 There was no reply and he had to swallow down his rising temper so he didn't throttle the boy. Speaking as calmly as possible, he muttered, "We both are going down to eat breakfast, Sherlock, whether you want to or not. Understood?"

 Still no response.

 John headed to the door, noting that his eyes were fully adjusted at this point. Sherlock hadn't moved an inch. "Doctor's orders, Sherlock. You're not sitting in here while I eat."

 A low chuckle filled the dark cabin. "Doctor's orders?"

 "Well, I'm the only one who seems to be concerned about your health here," said John half-jokingly, a smile unwillingly pulling at his lips.

 Another moment passed, but Sherlock slowly stood and made his way to John. Something similar to amusement flashed in those pale eyes.

 "Alright then, Doctor Watson. Lead the way."

 John couldn't stop the smile from appearing on his face as he nodded and led his infuriating cabin mate out the door. _Oh, you prat..._

 

\---

 

 Breakfast wasn't quite as Sherlock had described it. For one thing, John didn't have to sit at the Hermes cabin's table after all. As soon as he got his food, he sat down at Sherlock's empty table, shooting the taller boy a look when he began to stare. Chiron seemed amused but hadn't punished John, so he took it as a good sign.

 He had been more than willing to start digging into his food, but luckily Sherlock nudged him and nodded to the line of campers scraping off portions of their meals into the bronze brazier in the center of the pavilion. Confused, he reluctantly joined the line and scraped off his apple into the flames. For a moment, he could have sworn that he smelled something amazing: something rather like cinnamon and pine and strawberries rolled into one.

 "Offerings," Sherlock explained when they sat back down. "We scrape off offerings to the gods. They like the smell."

 "They like the smell of burning food?" John thought about the scent he had caught a moment ago and wondered if that was how heavenly it smelled to the gods too.

 Sherlock shrugged, returning his gaze to his food. "They're gods. Who knows what they like?"

 The unexpected side effect of sitting with the dark-haired boy was just how much of a fuss his late night arrival had aroused. John had expected the occasional odd look or stare, but certainly not the whispering and pointing. It was as if everyone were burning holes into the back of his head with the intensity of their gazes. It was easy to ignore at first, but as he continued eating, it only grew more and more irritating.

 "Don't people have better things to do with their time?" he muttered after catching a couple of girls giggling and shooting him looks.

 Sherlock raised an eyebrow, not really paying attention to his food. "A new unclaimed demigod sitting at an empty table with a child of Hades isn't supposed to draw attention?"

 John sighed at the obvious sarcasm laced in his words. "I didn't expect this many people to be that interested, that's all."

 "We haven't had any unclaimed demigods in a while, John. _Obviously_ your presence is going to attract unwanted attention."

 "So, what exactly do you mean by 'unclaimed'?" He'd been wondering about this since it was mentioned, but didn't want to sound as clueless as he felt. "I mean, how is my father supposed to introduce himself or whatever?"

 "Usually your parent will claim you by sending a sign or symbol that represents them. For instance, if your father was Hephaestus ― the god of the forges ― then the symbol would be a hammer wreathed in flames. This way, it is easier to tell who your godly parent is."

 John nodded. It did make a lot more sense instead of some old god calling Chiron over the phone to say, "Hullo! I'm John Watson's father, by the way!"

 "You said _usually_ , though."

 The boy sitting opposite of him sighed. "Some gods decide to 'change things up' occasionally. Must get bored of the same old signs and symbols. They will do something drastic like enhancing their beauty, for example, for a child of Aphrodite. Those rarely happen, however, which is a shame. Those claimings are the least tedious."

 John frowned at his tone and asked, "You think being claimed by your parent is boring?"

 This earned him an eye roll.

 "It's usually the same old 'Oh, my mother or father is this god/goddess!' and then we move on with our lives." Sherlock sighed again. "Also, the gods have better things to do with their time instead of attempting to consistently claim their offspring. Like argue constantly."

 John tried to picture a bunch of immortal beings all yelling at each other and wondered how they got anything done, if what Sherlock said was true.

 "You're worried he won't claim you," Sherlock said, interrupting his thoughts.

 "Sorry, who?"

 "Your father, John," he said, as if it were obvious. "You look worried."

 At this, a snort left his lips. "You've got that wrong. I couldn't care less what my dad thinks, to be honest. Sixteen years of trying to take care of my mum and sister, and he's apparently just a god who barely has any time for his children? If he claims me, I really don't think it would change anything."

 Sherlock went quiet, studying John as he normally did with that intense gaze. He was tempted to tell the demigod to leave him be, but had the feeling that it wouldn't do much good. Sherlock Holmes was too inquisitive to heed a warning like that.

 "Be careful how you talk," he said finally. "They may act pig-headed sometimes, but they are still gods. Offending gods is not a good idea. Believe me."

 Startled at the suddenly serious tone, John imagined the boy pissing off various gods and nearly smiled. It was clear by the look in Sherlock's eyes that he spoke from experience, and he didn't doubt that for a moment.

 "Who did you piss off?" John asked softly so that no one else could hear.

 Sherlock paused, something tugging at his lips (perhaps a smile?).

 "I believe," he murmured, "that the question should be 'who have you _not_ pissed off already?'"

 John laughed out loud at that. He ignored the strange looks sent his way, focusing only on the small smirk Sherlock flashed him. He didn't regret dragging his cabin mate to breakfast and couldn't imagine anyone else sitting across from him, smugly admitting that he'd managed to offend more immortal beings than he should have.

 "How have you _not_ been blasted to smithereens then?" he asked through his laughter.

 Sherlock shrugged, the smirk growing wider and smugger by the second. "I have luck on my side, I suppose."

 John snorted and shook his head. "Oh, you bastard. You're going to get killed someday, you know, with that kind of talk."

 The pale teen didn't respond, but it was clear that he didn't appear to care much. He took a bite of his pancakes and shrugged.

 "You know, John," said Sherlock after a few content moments, "you haven't seen all of the camp yet. I doubt Chiron would mind if you explored for the day, given the fact that you're probably going to be claimed by the end of the night. Besides, Capture the Flag is tomorrow evening and I'd like to take a look at the area before we play."

 John mulled it over in his head. He wondered briefly if this was yet another attempt to study him more and deduce his father. Then again, he did appear to be sincere this time, and John actually _did_ want to see all of Camp Half-Blood.

 "Fair enough," he said. "We should probably tell him, though. So he knows what we're doing, I mean."

 Sherlock rolled his eyes. "There's no need for that. He's likely assumed this already, and there isn't a need to tell Chiron about everything we do."

 Feeling slightly embarrassed, John nodded and continued eating. He wondered if he was making a mistake in trusting somebody like Sherlock Holmes. There didn't seem to be any harm in doing so, but in John's experience, choices like that always came back to bite him.

 Perhaps his luck was changing, though. After all he _did_ meet Sherlock and end up in a spectacular place where he was _finally_ safe from the monsters.

  _Right. Just be optimistic for once, Watson. Things will turn out just fine._

 Still, he remembered his nightmare and fought back a shiver. No, everything was going to be okay now. It was only a nightmare, after all.

 The moment breakfast ended, Sherlock stood and immediately started off into the camp. John hurriedly ran to catch up, earning him more strange looks, but he was already getting used to them.

 "Where to first?" he asked, a bit out of breath from his hurrying.

 "The armory." When Sherlock received a puzzled look, he explained, "You need to find a weapon that suits you before we do anything else."

 "Oh." John wondered briefly if there were more sword/pens like Sherlock's in the armory.

 To his surprise, they headed right for the odd ring of cabins. John knew better than to object but he still felt confused. Hadn't he said that they were going to the _armory_ first?

 Sherlock led him to a particular blue and gold cabin with an owl carved over the doorway. He marched past it to a large building on its side. It looked rather like a metal gardening shed, John observed.

 "Uh, is this the armory?"

 "Obviously," replied the taller boy, stopping in front of the big building. He frowned at the sight of a bronze lock on the door.

 "It would seem that we'll have to wait for a moment until she comes."

 Now John was thoroughly baffled. "Sorry, _she_? Who are you talking about?"

 This time he got no response, which was all the more annoying. Sherlock turned away, his gaze fixed on the campers all mingling and walking about.

 John sighed to himself and turned to the armory himself. The lock didn't appear too difficult to break, but for some reason, the sight of it deterred Sherlock. He gave it an experimental tug to test its strength. It seemed stronger than most ordinary locks, weighing heavier than it should have been in the grip of his hand.

 A minute later, there was the sound of footsteps drawing nearer and John frowned, looking at Sherlock expectantly. Who exactly were they waiting for?

 A girl with brown hair came into view, halting a few feet away as she caught sight of them both. John's eyes widened a little as he recognized her as the girl who had smiled at him last night.

 "Sherlock? What are you doing?" She apparently was British too, judging by her soft accent.

 "Waiting for you, of course," Sherlock said, giving her a thin smile. "The armory's locked up. Probably to keep the sons of Hermes out, yes?"

 She nodded, a small frown on her face. "Well, they aren't very nice, what with their pranks and all. They keep nicking our knives for fun and the Ares cabin keeps asking for new weapons. It just gets rather annoying."

 "We'd like to find a weapon that suits John. You know, before Capture the Flag tomorrow night."

 Her dark eyes flitted to John, lighting up with recognition like his had. A smile tugged at her lips. "I guess this is an emergency, then! Well, you can look around but don't take too long, Sherlock. This is the last favour I'm doing for you."

 Sherlock's expression suggested otherwise but he nodded anyways. The brunette moved past the both of them and she withdrew a small key from her pocket, unlocking the door in a few seconds. She smiled warmly at John as she opened the door to admit the boys.

 "I'm Molly, by the way. Molly Hooper."

 "John Watson," he replied with a smile. "How did you get that key?"

 Sherlock snorted as he walked inside, but said nothing. Molly frowned slightly at the tall boy before replying. "Well, I'm a daughter of Athena and that right there is our cabin. We sort of control the armory since it's so close."

 John racked his brain to try and recall who Athena was as he stepped inside, not really paying attention to his surroundings. "Sorry, isn't Athena a virgin goddess? How does she have children?"

 "Oh!" Molly seemed slightly embarrassed. He wondered if she got this inquiry often. "Well, she sort of conceives us through her mind, actually. It's like how Zeus gave birth to her, you know?"

 The goddess of wisdom, John remembered. That was who Athena was. It seemed to suit Molly.

 "What about this one, John?"

 Sherlock's voice brought him back out of his thoughts and it was in that moment that he realized just how many weapons lined the walls of the armory. He caught his breath as he observed the different types of knives and swords that were piling up everywhere. He certainly hadn't expected this many choices when Sherlock had said they were headed to the armory. Then again, his whole life was one big surprise after another these days.

 Realizing he was zoning out, he focused back on his temporary cabin mate. He was holding a rather heavy-looking sword with a bronze blade like Sherlock's sword had.

 "Um, looks rather heavy..." John admitted uncertainly.

 Sherlock paused and nodded in agreement. "Yes, definitely. Which would you prefer: knife or sword?"

 John blinked, studying some of the choices lining the walls. "I don't know... Which is easier?"

 "It depends on your physical strength, speed, and reach," Molly piped up, blushing a light pink when Sherlock glanced at her. "Knives usually work well for those who are quicker and don't need to be very strong to win in a fight. Swords have a greater length but you need to have some strength in case of larger and stronger opponents. It all depends on _you_ and your level of comfort with each type of blade, John."

 It made sense as her words sank in, but he couldn't help but feel lost. How was he supposed to choose a weapon when he didn't even know which one was right for him?

 He walked around, eyeing the swords with mixed emotions. He knew that two pairs of eyes were fixed on him, but he struggled to ignore them both, trying to focus on finding something he could feel comfortable wielding against a monster. Entertaining the idea of swinging a sword at one of those infuriating buggers, John grabbed the nearest one (a bronze sword with a very worn leather grip) and tested its weight.

 "It's too light," he muttered to himself, setting it back on the wall where he'd found it.

 "Do you think you'd be more comfortable with a sword?" Molly asked, trying to be helpful.

 John shrugged hopelessly, making his way to the back of the armory. "I really don't know. I don't know what I'd prefer, to be honest."

 He stopped for a moment, feeling some pressing into the bottom of his trainers. Looking down curiously, he realized a bow had fallen off one of the shelves nearby. As he picked it up to put it back, his eyes traced the dark wood of the weapon. It wasn't too long, nor too short, and although there were some scars marring the wood in places, it was a beautiful implement. Hesitantly, he pulled back on the bowstring, smiling lightly at the low hum it made once he released it.

 "Oh, I forgot we had some of those in here!" Molly said, noticing his current interest. "Most of the bows are in the archery range. The Apollo kids use them mainly, but some of my brothers and sisters prefer the bow too."

 "This one's in nice shape," murmured John, running his fingers over the wood. A strange tug in his gut screamed at him to take it and he didn't fully understand why.

 He didn't realize Sherlock was moving closer to him until he heard the son of Hades speak from only a foot away. "I think we've found your match."

 Snapping out of the odd trance-like state, John frowned at Sherlock. Something about the way he was looking at the blond made his heart pound. It was as if he were dissecting John slowly, examining all of his organs.

 "You think the bow's my match?"

 "Considering the fact that the look in your eyes confirms it, yes," said the pale teen. "Something wants you to take this bow in particular and you seem utterly fascinated by it for some reason... Or perhaps there _is_ a reason."

 John didn't think Sherlock was making any sense, and judging by the baffled look on Molly's face, she was just as perplexed. How could he know about that feeling in his gut?

 All of a sudden, the armory was bathed in golden light and Molly's jaw dropped as Sherlock smiled smugly. His brow furrowed as he tried to understand what was happening, his eyes trying to detect where the source of the light was coming from. It seemed stronger when the rays of light were closer to him, so it looked as if it were coming from... _him._

 "I don't understand," John said slowly. "What's happening?"

 The two were shielding their eyes (Sherlock in particular was squinting the hardest, but he didn't appear to mind) from the intensity of the glow now. Neither one explained the strange phenomena to John so he experimentally moved one of his hands, the one holding the bow.

 To his astonishment, rays of light glowed brightly from his fingertips, a funny tickling in his bones making him frown deeper. Was he doing this? John thought that he would have remembered being a human light bulb.

 As soon as it had begun, the light faded away until he stood there with no light emitted from his body.The tingling throughout his veins came to a halt and it was as if nothing had occurred. This was, by far, the strangest experience in the last twenty-four hours that he had ever had, John decided. He hesitantly flexed his fingers, relieved to see that he was normal once more.

 "Like I said before," Sherlock said, the smug grin scaring him a little, "I find the unique claimings _far_ more intriguing than the normal ones, John."

 "What the _hell_ just happened?!" John snapped, not in the mood for the teenager's riddles.

 "I do believe that you were just claimed. It all fits together, after all. The preference for the bow.The light. Your eyes not adjusting to the dark as quickly as an ordinary person's. Your appearance even fits the description."

 "What?"

 "Not what," Sherlock corrected, almost giddy as he seemed to be putting together puzzle pieces in his head. " _Who_. Your father has to be Apollo, the god of the sun, amongst various other things."

 John suddenly felt shaky on his feet. His father had claimed him? What was he supposed to do? He wasn't sure how he felt about the whole ordeal now, if Sherlock was correct. Was Apollo truly his father?

 Molly's eyes were as wide as dinner plates. "That does make sense," she agreed. "But why would Apollo claim John in a different way than all his other children?"

 Remembering Molly's casual comment about her siblings not too long ago, John felt a little sick. How many kids did each god have? Judging by what Sherlock had said last night about the Big Three gods, he guessed that they didn't normally have children often.

 He had brothers and sisters, all most likely about his age. Gosh, and he had thought Harry alone was a handful.

 "John must be different," Sherlock was saying. "Well, I know one thing for certain now."

 "What's that?" John tried not to sound nervous, but knowing the son of Hades, he most likely deduced it in his expression.

 A smile spread across Sherlock's face. "Things are going to get interesting. The game is on!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Choosing parents is hard work, ugh. For those of you who know the Percy Jackson/Heroes of Olympus fandom well, yes children of Athena aren't all identical appearance-wise (The author himself confirmed that not all kids had blonde hair over Twitter). I'm going to pretend Molly has grey eyes for the mo', okay?  
> Not too proud of this chapter, didn't turn out the way I had planned (especially with the little squabble about Sherlock not eating). Oh well...  
> Please leave comments, whether they are praises or critiques... I accept and enjoy either one.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John tries to understand Capture the Flag, and vows are made.

 Molly had insisted on informing Chiron of John's possible father and so the moment she had locked the armory up again, she hurried off to find the centaur. John was surprised that she had allowed him to keep the bow he'd found, but then realized nobody seemed to be missing it. Nobody would probably notice it was gone.

 Unfortunately, Molly leaving meant that Sherlock could study John even more intensely. The boy was in a strangely good mood and his constant smile was unnerving. He almost wished that his father hadn't claimed him so that Sherlock wouldn't be acting so oddly.

 "I take it you've seen the cabins before and can figure out which cabin belongs to whom?" Sherlock said as they walked past a few cabins.

 "Well, some of them I can guess," admitted John. "That blue and gold one is Athena's, Molly's mum."

 The boy nodded. "Obviously. What about the silver cabin beside it?"

 John studied the cabin in question, which seemed almost normal in the daylight (other than the fact that it was silver). Its similarly coloured curtains glittered in the light like diamonds. "A god or goddess that fancies silver..." He tried to think of something that could be associated with the colour, something that would remind him of whichever deity had this cabin. "Could it be the moon? That could be Artemis' cabin, but she's a virgin goddess like Athena. Unless―?"

 "Unless she too has demigod children? No, you're right about that. She doesn't have children. That is Artemis' cabin, yes, and her immortal hunters stay there whenever they come to visit."

 Judging by the boy's tone, those visits weren't very pleasant experiences.

 "Who has those cabins?" John asked, pointing back at the biggest cabins out of the twenty. They both were large and made of marble, formal-looking buildings even at a distance. One had bronze doors that shone brightly in the sunlight and the other had columns adorned with flowers. They were the most impressive of the bunch, clearly showing importance.

 "Isn't it obvious?"

 The look on his face spoke volumes: he wanted John to figure it out on his own. _Prick._

 "The two most important gods, I'm guessing," John said hesitantly. Sherlock nodded in encouragement so he kept talking. "Probably the most powerful too. So... Zeus is the larger one because he's the king of the gods. Is Hera the other one?"

 "Very good, John." Sherlock seemed slightly impressed. "Yes, that's hers. Although, she has no demigod children because she doesn't fraternize with mortals. Zeus is one of the Big Three and as of right now, we don't have anyone living in his cabin."

 John nodded as he took in this information. "So what about that other Big Three god? Poseidon?"

 "What of him?"

 "Does he have any kids?"

 "Not any that we know of."

 "So..." John quickly shut his mouth before he could finish his thought out loud. _So you're the only child of the Big Three here?_ That must make Sherlock the most powerful demigod at Camp Half-Blood, a realization that wasn't too surprising. Picturing Sherlock as the child of a lesser known god was difficult. It just didn't fit the dark-haired boy.

 He gave John a curious look but didn't press. Knowing him, he probably already knew what the blond had stopped himself from asking. "What about _that_ cabin, John?"

 John followed his finger, eyes resting on a golden cabin that seemed to glow in the sunlight. His heart flew to his throat as he noticed three kids with tanned skin and blond hair sitting on the steps. They all looked just like him, and it made his throat constrict as the reason why dawned upon him.

 "Apollo's cabin."

 Sherlock nodded, something twitching on the corner of his lips. "Yes. That's your father's cabin."

 John swallowed a lump down forcefully. "Look, how can you be so sure that Apollo is my father? For all we know, my dad could be someone completely different."

 This earned him a snort in response. "John, it all fits together. Your appearance is too similar to the children of Apollo to be mistaken for anyone else's child. You prefer the bow over the sword or dagger. Would you like me to go on?"

 "I just..." He wasn't sure what to say. He hadn't wanted to be claimed, not like this. Seeing other kids and knowing that they were probably his half-siblings only made him feel ill. Why would his father care about him enough to claim him in a different manner than his other children?

 "Apollo must think you're different to have claimed you like that, John," Sherlock said, as if trying to reassure him. "I've never seen a claiming as interesting as yours."

 "But I'm _not_ different!" John disagreed, turning to the pale boy. "I'm not _special_ at all, so _why_ would he care? It just...doesn't make sense!"

 Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Honestly, John. You're going to have to accept this at some point. Who else would your father be, after all?"

 John ran a hand through his hair as he glanced back at the gold cabin. "It's just a lot to take in," he mumbled.

 Sherlock was quiet for a minute, watching John once more with an unreadable expression. He sighed finally and said, "Well, I know where we should head next. Follow me."

 Wordlessly, John followed the son of Hades without a second glance at his father's cabin. He didn't pay any of the other campers too much attention, ignoring the confused looks sent his way. Instead he focused on the camp itself, surprised at how beautiful it was in the morning. The scent of strawberries was fresh, the grass a perfect shade of green, the sky above slowly but surely turning baby blue. High above, a pair of winged horses flew gracefully (or as gracefully as horses _could_ ) with campers steering them expertly. The sight of the camp in the morning was amazing, magical even.

 "Fantastic," he found himself muttering. Embarrassed as he realized that he'd spoken aloud, John shot a glance at Sherlock to see if he had heard that outburst. Thankfully, the boy didn't appear to have noticed ― or if he did, he didn't seem to care.

 A boy with black hair ran up to them wearing an orange t-shirt with the camp name displayed prominently on it. He appeared to be older than the two of them, but was about John's height. John noted that he wore a belt with a scabbard that held a bronze knife around his waist.

 "Sherlock! Heard Chiron sent you out into the city because you were bored. Glad to see you're here in one piece."

 So that was why Sherlock had been in Manhattan? He was bored? John wasn't as surprised as he probably should have been at this point. He found it easy to picture a person like Sherlock Holmes growing bored easily.

 The boy noticed John suddenly and looked apologetic. He stuck out his hand for him to shake. "Oh, sorry. Greg Lestrade, son of Dionysus."

 "John Watson," he replied, shaking the outstretched hand. Sherlock raised an eyebrow and John realized what he had left off in his introduction, but didn't bother to say it. Apollo may be his father, but he didn't see the need to tell everyone that. Especially when he himself barely accepted the theory.

 "Ah, you must be new! Don't worry, it gets easier to accept all of this, mate."

 John snorted. "It's been close to twenty-four hours and I _still_ have no clue what is happening."

 Greg laughed at this. "Yeah, it's all pretty confusing, I know. So, I take it you haven't been claimed yet?"

 "He has," Sherlock spoke up before John could respond. "By Apollo."

 John glared at the taller boy. "It hasn't been proven yet."

 "Please, John. I was _there_ when it happened."

 Greg raised an eyebrow and sent the blond an appreciative look. "Nice. Hey, at least you didn't get stuck with Ares. Those prats are always picking fights with everybody."

 John sighed and nodded. Despite the words that were meant to be reassuring, the heaviness in his heart hadn't changed.

 As if sensing the tension growing, Greg said hastily, "So are you ready for tomorrow? I think the Apollo cabin is teamed up with Athena, so we all should be on the same team."

 "Uh, what exactly _is_ Capture the Flag?" John inquired hesitantly.

 "It's a game that we normally play every Friday, " Greg explained. "There are two teams that are usually decided before the game begins, and they are made up of different cabins on each side. The goal is to find the other team's flag and carry it back to our side before the other team does."

 "Sounds simple enough," John said, knowing there probably was a catch to this.

 Sherlock snorted. "Easier said than done. You also have to avoid being captured by the other team if you're in their territory, _and_ you'll have to learn to fight if you're going to win the game."

 "Wait, you _fight_ each other?" How did this sound fun to them?

 Seeing the expression on John's face, Greg explained gently, "It trains us for any real threats in the future, like a monster attack or a quest. Besides, killing and maiming aren't allowed. No one has ever gotten seriously injured during the game as far as I know. You'll be fine."

 John looked between the two dark-haired boys in shock, still considerably alarmed by the idea of fighting the other campers. It sounded a bit dangerous; what if someone _did_ get injured while they were playing the game? How was this not a frightening thought to the other demigods?

 "I know it's probably been a rough time taking all of this in," Greg said, noticing the look on his face. "It _will_ get easier, though."

 Sherlock made a quiet sound in the back of his throat, turning away, and John wasn't sure if he was disagreeing with that statement or trying to get their attention. Who knew with this boy?

 "So," John said, ignoring Sherlock, "who exactly is on our...uh, team, for Capture the Flag?"

 Greg began ticking off cabins on his fingers after a moment of thought. "Athena is the leader for our side. Then there's Dionysus, Apollo, Nike, Demeter, Hecate, Nemesis, and Hades. I think that's everyone on our side. The other team is led by Ares, and they have Hephaestus, Hermes, Aphrodite, Tyche, Hebe, Iris, and Hypnos. The only real concerns are Ares and Hephaestus, to be honest, because they're the most brutal and there are a lot of them."

 "What about Moriarty?" Sherlock kept his expression neutral, but there was a flicker of something else in his eyes.

 Greg instantly groaned. "Holy Hephaestus, I forgot about that bastard. Yeah, him too. Watch out for him."

 "Who's Moriarty?" John asked, glancing between the two boys with trepidation.

 "He's on the other team and likes to wreck shit up," the son of Dionysus said curtly. It was a little strange to see how easily Greg got angered by the mere mention of a name. "That's all you need to know. Just watch out for him, John."

  _How can I watch out for someone if I don't even know who they are?_ John wanted to ask. He kept his mouth shut instead and simply nodded in understanding. Sherlock sent him a look that said, _I'll explain later._

 Calming himself quickly, Greg forced a smile. "Well, I had better go. Anderson is probably starting to plan our strategy now, and the last time that happened, I had to pry some Athena kid off of him." He sighed. "Ah, fun. Good luck, John, and I suppose I'll see you tomorrow night! Stay out of trouble please, Sherlock."

 That last comment caused John to look at Sherlock, just to see his reaction. All the boy did was smile and say, "I think we both know by now that trouble finds _me_ , Gavin."

 "Greg." The other boy was considerably annoyed. "You would think that after three years you would remember my bloody name..." He shook his head and nodded at John before hurrying off.

 John turned back to Sherlock, frowning for a moment before speaking. "Do you _really_ not know his name?"

 "I have to delete _some_ information, John," was the reply he got as the son of Hades started to walk off. John stood there for a second or two, open-mouthed and wondering what the hell that meant. He came to his senses as Sherlock called back, "Come on, John." With a sigh he hurried to catch up, unsure how he hadn't punched the prick in the face yet.

 "Alright, I have a question."

 "You've had loads all day, it is understandable," Sherlock interrupted. It took all of John's willpower not to throttle the boy.

 "I meant about the cabins. You said there are twenty of them, and if my memory is correct, there are twelve Greek gods, yes? Who were those other gods Greg mentioned?"

 Sherlock sighed, leading them past a large lake. "No, not twelve _gods_ , John. There are twelve _Olympians_ on Mt. Olympus, but there are many other minor gods and deities. For a time there were only twelve cabins for those Olympians, but it wasn't until a few years ago that the minor gods were granted the right to have cabins here. Even now not all of them are finished. They'll probably have to add an extra wing."

 "So, those other gods who don't have cabins still... Where do their children go?"

 "Hermes' cabin. He's the god of travelers, so it only seems fitting that he takes all of the unclaimed and any others who don't have a cabin."

 Something stirred in the back of John's mind. Something Chiron had said last night...

 "They don't have any room in the cabin, Chiron said," he told the boy, voicing his thoughts aloud. "But that's where I should have gone?"

 "Until we figured out your father, yes."

 There was a brief moment of silence as John stomached this information. A new question popped into his head without warning.

 "Are there any, then?"

 Sherlock looked confused, glancing over at the blond after a second. "What do you mean?"

 "Are there any children who don't have cabins right now?" John clarified.

 A dark look passed over the taller boy's face. Those pale eyes narrowed as he stared straight ahead.

 "Yes. A few."

 John hesitated before asking his next question, unsure how the boy would react. "Which gods don't have cabins?"

 There was another pause. "Why are you so interested?"

 "I'm just curious." He didn't know why he cared, truthfully.

 Sherlock didn't glance over, but John could tell by the stiffening in his back that he wanted to. He muttered quietly, "There are far too many minor gods to narrow it down."

 He couldn't help but feel irritated by the lame answer. "Give me an example of one of the kids, then."

 "You asked about Moriarty before, yes? Well, Jim Moriarty is the son of Eris, the goddess of strife, chaos, and discord. He's residing in the Hermes cabin because she had no cabin. Does that answer satisfy you?"

 The mocking tone was unmistakable, but he chose to ignore it. He had yet another question. It was odd, really, how inquisitive he felt. Then again, Sherlock wasn't exactly denying him answers.

 "Why does everyone seem to hate this 'Moriarty'?" he asked. "Is he really that awful?"

 Sherlock raised an eyebrow, not looking at him still. "He enjoys playing games with others, particularly those he deems worthy as an equal."

 It didn't take a genius to deduce the hidden meaning laced within his words. "You mean you."

 Sherlock smiled thinly. "Yes. He enjoys wrecking havoc and causing petty feuds to spring up whenever he walks past. It's how he keeps himself from being bored."

 "What about you?"

 This earned him another confused look. "What about me?"

 "Greg mentioned you were bored when Chiron sent you out into the city," John reminded him. "Do you get bored easily?"

 "Gods, yes. There are different methods of curing boredom, however, and Moriarty's way isn't to my liking."

 John examined the pale demigod's face as he spoke. He snorted and shook his head after a moment. "No, you enjoy it, don't you? Whatever games he plays, you like to play along. It's how you get your kicks, isn't it?"

 Sherlock stopped and stared at John for a minute, his pale eyes intensely staring into his own blue pair. Suddenly the boy didn't seem quite so intimidating after all, despite how he acted and appeared to be. He just looked curious. John allowed himself to relax under the gaze and stared right back stubbornly.

 It took another minute, but eventually Sherlock smiled. He turned away and continued walking with John right beside him. Neither one of them spoke for a while, just walking and thinking. John couldn't help but feel victorious and smug. He doubted many people could say that they had called Sherlock Holmes a liar and come out unscathed.

  _You're just full of surprises, aren't you?_ John thought to himself in amusement, shaking his head.

 By the time they had reached their destination, John had decided to shove all imposing thoughts aside and focus on exploring the camp. Worrying about Apollo and Capture the Flag could wait until later.

 Still, he was puzzled when he realized where they were. A chalk line stood out in the green grass. Just a few feet from the chalk line were targets. Just behind the chalk line was a table filled with all sorts of supplies. On the field in front of them, there were targets lined up. The targets were inconsistent in their placement. Some were a bit closer, some farther off. There were some targets attached to some branches on the trees that were a little ways out as well.

 "Uh, Sherlock?" John said with a frown. "What is this?"

 "The archery range," the boy answered, as if it were obvious.

 Suddenly it made more sense about why they had come here first, of all places. He looked down at the bow he still clutched in his hand and something fluttered in his stomach.

 "I don't know how to shoot, you know," he tried to tell the son of Hades.

 Sherlock actually laughed, as if John had told a joke. "You're a son of Apollo, John. You only need to feel it in your gut to know how."

 He shook his head. The boy could be so thick at times. "No, I mean that I have no idea how to use this bow. I've never shot an arrow before. What makes you think I can magically do it _now_?"

 Sherlock raised an eyebrow and asked innocently, "Would you prefer it if I asked one of your siblings to show you how?"

 It took a few seconds before the words sank in. When they did, John paled. Oh, hell no. The last thing he wanted was an awkward conversation with someone who was supposedly his brother or sister.

 "Fine, have it your way," John muttered, heading to the table of supplies. He caught Sherlock trying not to smile out of the corner of his eye, but chose to ignore it for now. He'd get the prick back later.

 He hesitated as he stared at the supplies. How was he supposed to know what to do with all of this stuff?

 Remembering what Sherlock had said about feeling it in his gut, he gave in to the strong tug that seemed to start up just as soon as he thought this. He grabbed a quiver full of arrows and swung it over his head, so that it would rest on his back. He slid an arm guard onto his right arm and picked out a dark brown leather glove for his left hand, which only covered his three middle fingers. The entire process felt surprisingly easy and came naturally as his body moved without his control. It was rather like the tapping of his fingers against his thigh earlier in the day.

 The pale boy was smirking when he looked back up. His expression clearly said, _I told you so._

 "Shut it," John said and glared at him, although it wasn't quite as intimidating given the smile tugging at his lips.

 He gripped the bow tightly as he walked up to the chalk line, pulling an arrow out of his quiver instinctively. Here he was not entirely sure what to do and hesitated once more.

 "I think you have to clip it to the bowstring," called Sherlock helpfully.

 He obeyed and noted that the arrow fit snugly. His face felt hot with embarrassment as he mumbled, "Thanks."

 His legs naturally relaxed into a stance, spreading apart as if they already knew what to do, and pulled back the bowstring with his three middle fingers. It was amazing how still his body suddenly was, which was a miraculous feat for any person with ADHD. His complete focus was drawn to a target not too far off, perhaps forty feet away from the line. John breathed in slowly, exhaling just as slowly as he aimed.

 The moment he released the bowstring, his heart leapt at the great _thunk_ that came once the arrow hit the target. His eyes widened a little at how close he had come to hitting center.

 Sherlock was smiling wide as John turned around to see his reaction. "Like I said: it comes naturally, John."

 For once, he didn't have a retort to the slightly mocking tone. John glanced back at the target as he lowered the bow, fingering the bowstring with wonder. Maybe Sherlock was correct. Maybe Apollo really _was_ his father.

 There was a whistling behind him, causing him to frown as both he and Sherlock turned to look. A pale boy about his age with dark hair was leaning against a tree watching them, his hands tucked into his jeans' pockets. He was a little taller than John but definitely a lot skinnier. While he appeared unassuming at first glance, his dark brown eyes reminded him eerily of Sherlock's pale ones, calculating and studying them as if they were a pair of science experiments. Some sort darkness was hiding behind those dark eyes, he was sure of it. He immediately knew from the churning in his gut that he did not like this stranger.

 "Impressive," he called out. His accent wasn't American or British (Irish, perhaps?) and his tone was playful. "Not every child of Apollo hits that close on the first try, you know."

 Sherlock remained calm, but the dangerous flash in his eyes made John feel a little nervous. "What do you want, Moriarty?"

 His heartbeat suddenly began to pound  relentlessly in his ears. _This_ was Jim Moriarty? This relatively unimpressive boy was the one playing games with people like Sherlock? He would have found it impossible to believe, almost laughable, if not for the feeling of unease he got every time he looked into the boy's eyes.

 A smirk slipped onto the demigod's face smoothly. "Oh, nothing. Just thought I'd see how the newest camper's doing, that's all. After all, _everyone_ seems _very_ interested in him ― even _you._ Causing _quite_ the fuss among everyone, aren't we? Why is that, do you think, Sherlock?"

 "John is none of your concern."

 Moriarty chuckled, a dark sound that made John's eyes narrow. "So _defensive_! Is he really _that_ intriguing?"

 John _really_ didn't like how the two of them were completely ignoring his presence. It was as if they were having a conversation alone (or alone in their minds, perhaps) and John was standing off in another world.

 "Leave John out of this." The warning in Sherlock's voice was very clear. "You must have better things to do with your time, yes?"

 "Just trying to have some _fun_ ," Moriarty remarked teasingly.

 "I would appreciate it if that 'fun' did not include me." John was astonished when he realized that he had said those words aloud. Both of the boys turned to look at him, forcing the blond to try and hide his surprise at the outburst. It was more than little unnerving to have _two_ pairs of eyes gazing at him intently, but he held his ground.

 "Oh, Johnny boy speaks!" Moriarty's nickname made his teeth grit together, but he didn't bite at the obvious attempt at infuriating him. He guessed that it was the boy's ability to cause trouble that was threatening to cloud his judgment.

 Instead, he stared down the demigod, fighting back a shudder at the intensity of his gaze. "I'm a person, thank you very much, and I'd like it if you backed off."

 Moriarty hummed in appreciation, not at all deterred by his dangerously angry tone. " _Quite_ an interesting pet you've got there, Sherlock. Got a nasty bite too, I'm sure."

 John gripped his bow tightly, fighting the strong urge to reach back and nock an arrow onto the bowstring. "I'm _not_ a pet."

 Something in Sherlock's expression warned John not to rise to the bait, that he was only digging himself into a deeper hole, but resisting was an arduous task. It was like avoiding a wolf prowling through a herd of sheep. No wonder Greg had looked so pissed when he remembered Moriarty was on the other team. Was he like this all the time?

  _I think you already know the answer to that_ , hissed a small voice in his head.

 Moriarty acted as if he hadn't heard him speak. "Funny thing, pets. So touchingly loyal." He tilted his head for a moment, his dark eyes burning holes into John. It was as if he were judging his worth, and he definitely did not like the disturbing sensation one bit. It was different when Sherlock was staring at John; at least he was somewhat respectful as he observed the boy. Moriarty was dissecting his thoughts and emotions with each moment that he gazed at the blond, not at all caring about how perturbed he was.

 "Well, I'd better be off!" The feeling faded as Moriarty glanced at Sherlock, smiling wolfishly. "I suppose I'll be seeing you _tomorrow_ when the little game begins. Oh, fun."

 John didn't relax his grip on the dark wood of the bow until he was sure the boy had walked away, completely out of sight and earshot. He turned to Sherlock as the pent-up irritation boiled over inside. "What the _hell_ is his problem?"

 Surprisingly, Sherlock didn't appear as fazed as John. "You shouldn't have tried to call him out," he said. "It only fuels his confidence and doesn't make it any easier to resist the urge to start a fight. Don't worry: you'll be a bit uptight for a little while until the feeling wears away. It's just a side effect of his abilities."

 This didn't help him feel any less angry towards the son of Eris. "What was I supposed to do? Let you both continue talking like I wasn't there?"

 "I can handle Moriarty," Sherlock told him.

 John snorted at this and rolled his eyes, turning away from the pale boy. "Not alone, you can't. He just kept on taunting you, so you're clearly not frightening him!"

 "Alone protects me."

 "No, _friends_ protect people," the blond snapped, whipping right back around to glare at him.

 The silence that followed was tense and neither of them made a move to break it. John could slowly feel his anger at Moriarty fading, as well as some of his irritation towards Sherlock's words, but didn't apologize. He wanted to make a point, a point that the demigod near him didn't appear to get.

 Sherlock merely stared back, studying him as he had done ever since they met, and his expression was unreadable. John couldn't guess what he was thinking, and he wasn't quite sure whether he wanted to or not. They both stood there without a sound, saying nothing to end the tension, which was growing tedious.

 "I don't have any friends, John," Sherlock said finally. He didn't appear sad or dejected; he seemed indifferent about the matter, actually. It made his heart wince to see no emotion on his face as he said the statement.

 "Well, now you do, you prick," John replied, trying to sound stern. "So that's exactly what I'm going to do. Protect you."

 The taller boy opened his mouth as if to object but then quickly closed it again. He seemed genuinely shocked by his words and John felt a small smile slip onto his lips. Those pale eyes were curious and questioning, as if he didn't believe his ears.

 "Besides, knowing you," John added, "you'll likely get yourself into some trouble tomorrow night at Capture the Flag. If Moriarty's on the other team, there's no way I'm letting you face him alone."

 Sherlock did smile at this. "Someone's a bit confident."

 He rolled his eyes, but felt secretly relieved that the son of Hades seemed to accept his vow of friendship. "Weren't _you_ the one who was saying that you could handle Moriarty on your own? And you're calling _me_ overconfident?"

 They both looked at each other for a minute before bursting out laughing. Just like that, the tension shattered like broken glass and the two were forgetting all about their spat in moments. Even when Molly found them later on after John took a few more shots at the targets, the teens were smiling to themselves (which confused the daughter of Athena, but she didn't mention it).

  _This isn't half-bad,_ thought John later that day after dealing with Chiron, who wanted to know every detail about his strange way of being claimed. _This is probably the best time I've had since those monsters started showing up to kill me._

 If only he knew then that the good feeling wouldn't last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jim and Lestrade finally came out to play! Capture the Flag should be coming up in the next chapter too, eh? Oh, gods, this is going to be fun.  
> Not entirely sure if I chose Jim's parent accordingly... He's a rather difficult demigod to choose for, that little prat (I can't stop laughing at Lestrade's line about how he "likes to wreck shit up" because it's so true, isn't it?)  
> Thank you to everyone who has been commenting and leaving kudos because it makes my day, honestly. (106 hits?! Holy Hades, how did that happen overnight?!)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John is issued a warning, and the games begin.

 The tour went much smoother once the rough start to the day had been mended. The two learned to ignore the stares and whispers as Sherlock showed John around the camp, pointing out where everything was and naming the purpose of certain things that baffled him (such as the rock wall that shook and rained down lava). He learned more about the rules and restrictions at Camp Half-Blood from the son of Hades, making a mental note not to disobey any of them. The memory of Chiron's friendly smile vanishing and being replaced by something much sterner and older made John feel nervous. The centaur seemed like a good person, and he wanted to remain on his good side.

 Chiron had called John in for a brief questioning about the incident in the armory, listening with a frown on his face the entire time. Much to his dismay, the elder man confirmed that Sherlock's theory appeared correct. Apollo was his father.

 He wasn't sure how to feel about the idea still. Apollo certainly didn't seem to have noticed that he'd missed a child when he was off frolicking on Mt. Olympus (or whatever the hell gods did in their spare time). Why should John let him back into his life anyway?

 So he had a father. So what?

 Despite these reassuring words, something still nagged at him in his heart. He couldn't name what the feeling was, exactly, just that he didn't like it. Ignoring it was easy at first but it was growing stronger now.

 After the confirmation of his true parentage, John's first official day at Camp Half-Blood went by quickly. He refused to go to the Apollo cabin at the end of the day, partly because he knew there was no room there for him but also because it just didn't feel right. No matter the reason, it was worth it to see the astonished look on Sherlock's face when he followed him into Hades' cabin and let his eyes adjust in their slow way to the darkness.

 He had meant it whole-heartedly when he had declared that he would protect Sherlock. Perhaps the idea had been absurd at first in his mind, but John was getting used to the idea now. Being around the boy gave him an odd rush of adrenaline that he had missed in his previously somewhat normal lifestyle. He had this strange feeling that every day was an adventure to the demigod ― and John definitely liked that.

  _If only people like Jim Moriarty hadn't come with this new life_ , John thought to himself as his eyes fluttered shut that night.

 Sadly, almost immediately after he'd fallen asleep, he was struck by a plague of nightmares.

  _He was drowning again. The dark water rose up all around him, swallowing his body whole as he struggled to take a deep breath before the darkness. It took merely a moment for him to observe that the ocean was, in reality, a large chamber with no doors or windows. The walls around him rose up to ten feet above his head from where he stood on the floor, the ceiling a grey mass of limestone above._

_If he had felt panicked the first time around, he was absolutely petrified now. There was no way out, no surface for him to reach, and he was going to die._

_"You'll be fine, John!" Dammit, that irritating voice was back. It was fainter this time, however, not as distinguishable as before. It sounded vaguely familiar, to be honest..._

_"Leave me be!" he shouted, wanting to at least retaliate with_ something _before the water filled the chamber (and his lungs)._

 _It was silent for a moment, making John wonder if perhaps he_ had _managed to get the voice to shut up. However, it soon spoke as the water pooled around his waist._

_"Listen to me. You need to trust me when the time comes, alright? You're not going to die, John. I promise you won't!"_

_"I don't even know who you are! How am I supposed to trust you?"_

_If disembodied voices could roll their eyes, John had no doubt that this one was doing so. "You have to! This isn't the end, trust me! Something dark is coming, and you need to stop it. If you don't, everyone will be in danger!"_

_This grabbed his attention. "Everyone? As in...?"_

_"Everyone! Everyone at your new home! Every demigod everywhere in the world is going to die, John."_

_Something clenched in his gut. The dark water was up to his armpits and he struggled to keep himself afloat. "What the bloody hell are you talking about? What's going to happen?"_

_"Just trust me! You have to trust me, okay?"_

_"You're not making any sense!" John cried, horribly confused. "Tell me what's going to destroy everyone!"_

_Was it his imagination, or was the voice growing fainter by the minute?_

_"John, that's not important right now! You have to warn everyone! You have to trust me, please."_

_The water was almost over his head now. His time was running out._

_"Who are you?" he called out._

_Unfortunately, that was the last thing he heard before the dark water swallowed him whole and he struggled to hold his breath in the cold darkness. He tried to swim about, to find some sort of exit, but he knew it was hopeless. There was no hidden door or hidden lever that could reveal a passageway out of the chamber. He was alone and going to drown._

Trust me. _He remembered those two words as the deep breath he had taken proved to be his last. As the air in his lungs ran out slowly but surely..._

 John sat upright in bed, a strangled sound that was suspiciously close to a scream stuck in his throat. He nearly panicked at the sight of darkness greeting him but then recalled where he was. He squeezed his eyes shut, taking in a deep breath as he calmed down.

 _These nightmares had better go away_ , he thought to himself. _I don't want this to become a regular thing._

 Gathering his wits, John looked around, straining to make out shapes in the dark. After a minute or two of waiting, he managed to spot Sherlock sleeping with his back facing away from the blond. At least he hadn't woken up the son of Hades (and nor was said demigod watching his every move for once).

 With a small sigh, he rubbed the sleep out of his tired blue eyes and crept out of bed, not wanting to wake his cabin mate. It took another minute before he managed to find the trunk near the foot of his bed that Chiron had packed with proper clothing at his request. He pulled on an orange camp t-shirt, a pair of jeans, and some trainers near the bottom that looked strangely similar to a pair he had left at home.

 He closed the trunk gently, being careful not to make too much noise and wake Sherlock. Perhaps he would go for a short walk or explore before breakfast began. It felt like six in the morning, from what he gathered by a feeling in his gut.

 That thought made John freeze in shock. Wait, _what?_

 Wonderful. That must be another odd Apollo gift.

 John felt his way to the door, trying to ignore the irritation rising, and smiled when he stepped outside. The sun was still coming up, and he couldn't help but marvel at the sight of the different colors in the sunrise blending together. There was something magnificent in the way they mixed together, blending almost seamlessly into one another.

 The sound of a door shutting grabbed his attention and he quickly turned to see who else had decided to head out early. To his surprise, it appeared to be the all of the Apollo cabin's members were leaving. A lump lodged itself in his throat as he watched the kids all heading off, stretching in the early morning light. These were his brothers and sisters.

 He wasn't sure what to do. His legs seemed to be paralyzed all of a sudden. Introducing himself didn't seem like a good idea, but he felt guilty as the thought of simply ignoring them came into his head.

 Then again, what would they even _do_ if they knew who he was? Welcome him into their cabin? That idea seemed somewhat laughable.

 Before John could choose what to do, a couple of boys a little older than him glanced over and spotted him. They broke away from the group and walked over, smiling wide.

 "Hey! You must be that new camper who's been hanging out with Holmes," said the taller one. He had faint freckles, John noticed, and his eyes were a lighter shade of blue compared to his own. "I'm Mark and this is Garrett."

 John gave a weak smile and waved. "Y-Yeah. John Watson."

 Garrett gave him a sympathetic smile, misunderstanding his discomfort. "It's all a bit new, I know. Don't worry, though. It gets easier to understand over time."

 "Everyone says that, but it's all kind of weird, you know?" John found himself saying. "I mean, suddenly my dad is a Greek god and it's just...weird."

 Garrett laughed. "Don't worry. It was that way for everybody at first."

 "So, it's your dad who's the god?" asked Mark. "Have you been claimed yet?"

  _Damn._

 "Uh, yeah..." Both boys perked up a little, not appearing to hear the unease in his voice.

 "That's awesome!" said Garrett with a broad grin. "Who is it?"

 John forced himself to calm down. After all, what was the worst that could happen? "Well... Apollo."

 The silence that ensued was tense and John winced at the sight of his brothers' wide eyes and dropped jaws. _Good job there._

 "Really?" Garrett was staring at him with an expression that almost resembled... _awe._

 "Yes..."

 "Cool!" John's own eyes widened in surprise now.

 "R-Really?"

 Mark laughed at the look on his face. "Of course! It's been ages since we've had new siblings! Athena gets all the good kids these days."

 "You know," Garrett said, a smile forming on his lips again, "we were all going to go to the archery range. It's a sort of tradition for us to go out and practice early in the morning. Want to come?"

 All nervous thoughts were blown right out the window in John's brain. "Sure!"

 His brothers smiled wider at his reply. "Brilliant! C'mon, we'd better catch up!" Mark took off after finishing his exclamation, leaving the other two to hurry after him. A sense of belonging slowly settled in John's gut from that moment on, lasting the entire time through the brief excursion to the archery range. The longer he stayed in Camp Half-Blood, the more he realized how much he had missed having a place to call home. London had been home a year ago, and since he had moved to New York he hadn't ever felt like he had truly belonged. Not until now, at least. There was something about everyone here at the camp, the atmosphere, the whole idea of not being alone in this crazy monster-filled world, that made him feel so welcome.

 Everyone in the Apollo cabin greeted John brightly (pun not intended) throughout the early morning practice. All of his brothers and sisters welcomed him with open arms, just like Garrett and Mark had, and even helped him improve with the bow. The longer they practiced with him, the better he got with the bow. It felt much better than yesterday, where he had only had Sherlock to occasionally give out a suggestion for what he thought would help with the techniques.

 Time flew by much faster than he had anticipated, and soon everyone froze at the sound of a conch shell blasting through the camp: the signal for breakfast.

 "Good job, John," remarked Mark as they put their supplies away. "We'll make an archer out of you yet!"

 He chuckled, removing his arm guard. "I don't know about that. I hadn't shot a bow before in my life until yesterday. I'm honestly surprised that I haven't shot anyone yet!"

 "You're a child of Apollo, it's in your blood." Mark gave him a small smile. "You're doing a lot better than some newcomers too, so you ought to be proud. Who knows? Maybe you'll destroy everyone tonight at Capture the Flag."

 John rolled his eyes. "Definitely not."

 The taller boy shrugged, his freckles standing out in the sunlight. "You never know! See you at breakfast!"

 He was about to reply but then remembered his temporary cabin mate. "Oh, wait. I'm eating with Sherlock, sorry."

 "Sherlock Holmes?" Mark's eyebrows rose in confusion. "Why him?"

  _Why?_ _Because he's my friend._ "Because I like him."

 He immediately knew that came out wrong because his brother looked taken aback. "Wait, no, I didn't mean it like _that._ I just meant that―"

 "Nothing wrong with it, John." Mark's tone was teasing now. "After all, I'm pretty sure a bunch of other guys feel that way too, you know."

 "I'm _not_ gay," John said with finality. "I meant that he's...different. I like talking to him, that's all."

 " _Sure._ " It was clear from the mischievous look in his eyes that he didn't believe a word that John said. "See you tonight, then. Don't worry, your secret is safe with me!"

 He winked before walking away with the rest of the kids from the Apollo cabin. John rubbed his temples, wondering how the hell he was going to deal with these other siblings. He had _barely_ managed with Harry.

 Something flickered out of the corner of his eyes and he hurriedly turned to see what it was. Nothing was there, but there was a sense of unease prickling like the hairs on the back of his neck.

 "Bloody paranoia," he mumbled under his breath, slowly turning away. It had to be. There weren't any monsters in the camp, after all. What else ― or _who_ else ― would be following him anyways?

 

\---

 

 Dinner couldn't come fast enough. Sherlock had told him that the game would begin after dinner so he was fidgety all throughout the day, unable to wait for Capture the Flag. The son of Hades seemed highly amused by his reactions, telling him that he was going to waste all of his energy on fidgeting about before the game even started. John had to bite back a sarcastic retort at this, not wanting to give him the pleasure of seeing him more agitated.

 He wasn't entirely sure why he felt so eager to begin playing Capture the Flag, to be honest. After all, he could get seriously injured tonight due to his lack of training. Then again, the adrenaline was already rushing through his veins and he just couldn't contain himself. He'd deal with his disabilities later on.

 Something he was a little upset about was the fact that Sherlock wouldn't tell him what their strategy was for the game. He knew that the boy knew because Greg had pulled him off to the side after breakfast and the two had had a long talk in private. Every time John brought up the topic, the teen's eyes would glint mischievously and he would refuse information.

 "But how am I going to know what to do for tonight?" John had argued after asking for the third time.

 "You'll do fine, John," was the only reply he had received.

 John wasn't satisfied with this answer. If he didn't know what to expect, how was he going to defend himself? How would he know what everyone was going to do?

 "Am I the only one acting normally about this?" John muttered as he headed to the Hades cabin to grab his bow before dinner. Sherlock had gone ahead to talk to Greg ( _Prick_ , he thought irritably) so he decided to be prepared for Capture the Flag beforehand. After all, it wasn't as if he was going to be missed.

 It took a minute or two before his eyes somewhat adjusted to the dark cabin so he fumbled about a bit before finding where he had left his bow beside his bed. How _anyone_ could see in the damn cabin was beyond him.

 A cold chill settled over the cabin, his vision growing darker for a moment as a sharp sound rang out faintly. By the time his eyes had managed to adjust, green fire ignited in the torches above the doorway, revealing a figure standing near Sherlock's bed. John suddenly regretted having shut the door as his heart began to pound in his chest.

 As his eyes grew more used to the dim lighting, he did a quick assessment of the stranger. It appeared to be a young man much older (and a little taller) than he, and was dressed sharply in a suit. He seemed a bit tired, oddly, and clasped his sword hilt upside-down between his hands, using it rather like a cane. There was something in his eyes that John certainly didn't like, not trusting that strange gleam for a moment.

 "Who are you?" His voice was surprisingly steady, considering the current predicament.

 The young man completely ignored the inquiry. "You're Mr. Watson, then. Interesting."

 Something cold clutched at John's heart. How did he know his name? Why was he here? Was he a monster disguised as a man? Millions of questions flew through his brain at once, only serving to confuse him further.

 "Please, sit down." The stranger gestured to the bed, forcing a smile like it was physically painful. John noted that his accent was English and stared back into those dark eyes stubbornly.

 "I don't want to sit."

 "No? You aren't tired at all after a long day?" There was something laced within the young man's words that made him feel uneasy.

 "What do you want?" John snapped, losing his patience very quickly.

 There was a tense silence as the two stared each other down. No, he _definitely_ didn't like the way that this stranger was staring at him. How on earth did he manage to get himself into these types of situations constantly? His grip tightened on his bow and John wished that he had a quiver of arrows with him to get rid of the stranger.

 "That won't be necessary, Mr. Watson," the young man said, as if reading his thoughts. "I'm not here to harm you." He glanced about the cabin, a distasteful look emerging on his cold exterior. The look reminded John of the way children looked down at the poor excuse for lunch food at his secondary school.

 "So, you've taken an interest in Sherlock Holmes." The man walked forward a few steps, but kept his distance. "You've spent, at most, two nights in this cabin too, by the looks of it. Judging by the trunk, one would assume that you're even considering remaining in his cabin for an _extended_ amount of time."

 John was startled by the unexpected change in conversation, but he refused to show any sign that he was caught off-guard by the statements. "What exactly are you implying?"

 "You don't seem very afraid." It was an offhand comment that was followed by a curious look.

 "Should I be? You don't seem very frightening."

 The man smiled, but something about it seems forced. Truthfully, this stranger didn't appear very terrifying the longer this conversation went on. John was more irritated than scared at this point.

 "What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"

 John raised an eyebrow at the question. "I could be wrong, but I think that's none of your business." He was beginning to wonder where on earth this bravery was coming from ― and whether or not he had a death wish to keep talking so defiantly to this man.

 The stranger chuckled, a mocking sound that made John dislike him more than ever. "I think it _is_ , Mr. Watson."

 "Who _are_ you?" John demanded.

 There was a pause before the man responded. "An interested party."

 He couldn't help but scoff at that. "Interested?" he said. "In what? Sherlock?"

 "Perhaps." The vague answer had an ominous underlying tone that made him look at the man curiously. Was this one of the gods that Sherlock had pissed off? It would certainly explain why he was so interested in Sherlock.

 The man glanced around the dark cabin once more, his expression transforming back into the cold mask. "Yes, you are clearly different from the rest, Mr. Watson. Whether that will be a good influence on him or not, we shall see..."

 "You're not a friend of his," John observed out loud. "Why are you so interested in him?"

 The stranger smiled mockingly. "A friend? How many _friends_ do you think Sherlock Holmes has?"

  _At least one._ John didn't dare say this out loud though.

 He gave John a knowing look and glanced at the skull on the table, seeming to study it. For one long moment, the blond wondered whether he should attempt an escape or continue to put up with this smug stranger. Before he could decide, the man spoke up with a loud voice.

 "One final thing, Mr. Watson. You are not to involve Sherlock Holmes in whatever is coming, understand?"

 This threw him off-guard for the second time. John didn't bother to try and hide his confusion however.

 "Why?"

 "He goes looking for trouble, and it makes my job rather tedious when I have to clean up his messes." The man sighed impatiently, as if John were being tiresome. "I worry about him. Constantly."

 "How nice of you," John said sarcastically.

 The man gave him that same tight-lipped mocking smile again. He walked forward a few more steps and John stood his ground, staring obstinately back at the man with dark eyes. He wasn't about to be intimidated by this stranger.

 "You don't appear to be the type to make friends easily."

 "Your point?"

 With a tilt of his head, the young man said quietly, "Could it be that you've decided to trust _Sherlock Holmes,_ of all people?"

 A chill ran up his spine as he gazed up at the man. He could feel his temper rising and knew he was going to snap very soon if this stranger didn't leave. "Are we done here?"

 "For the moment, yes." The man stepped back, continuing until he was almost up against the wall of the cabin. "Do remember what I said, Mr. Watson. Leave Sherlock Holmes out of this mess."

 In mere seconds, the torches went out and the cabin was plunged into darkness once more. He made sure to remain perfectly still and not rush to the wall to attack the young man, although he really wanted to. By the time that John's eyes adjusted to the dark again, the mysterious man was long gone.

 His heart flew to his throat as it began to pound incessantly. What had that been all about? Was he trying to scare him away from Sherlock? Who _was_ that man anyways? Why was he so interested in Sherlock Holmes? John definitely didn't trust the stranger and was growing more stressed out about the encounter the longer he stayed in the cabin. Each question went unanswered as it entered his head, worry gnawing at his heart.

 What trouble could he possibly get into that would alarm that man? He wasn't a troublemaker. He was a fairly good kid, if he was completely honest. Whatever mess this stranger was worrying about couldn't possibly involve him.

 There was only one thing he knew for certain: he had to tell Sherlock about what had happened.

 Remembering that dinner had probably begun, John raced out of the Hades cabin gripping his bow tightly. A few stray campers were hurrying on their way too, most likely having cleaned up in their cabins before heading out. That realization made him feel a little better about being late.

 Most everyone were already inside the dining pavilion, and he tried not to appear conspicuous as he hurried to the almost deserted table where Sherlock was currently sitting. The boy raised a curious dark eyebrow at his late arrival, but thankfully said nothing. He noted that a few of his brothers and sisters gave him puzzled looks when they spotted his choice of seating and tried not to feel guilty. John piled food onto his plate in silence and scraped off a portion of his potatoes into the brazier for the offerings, ignoring the intense stare of Sherlock that was burning holes into the back of his head.

 It only took five minutes after he had begun to eat his dinner for Sherlock to make a deduction.

 "Something happened back at the cabin. Clearly you're worrying about it and wanted to tell me. So, what is it?"

 John took a deep breath and looked up at the pale boy, whose hands were steepled underneath his chin, brow furrowed as he studied his temporary cabin mate. How would he react?

 "I met a...friend of yours."

 "A _friend_?" Sherlock looked so incredulous that John nearly started to laugh.

 "Erm, not really. I think he might have been one of those gods you pissed off, actually. Seemed like a pretty powerful bloke."

 Sherlock relaxed slightly at this. "Oh, which one? Describe him to me. Don't leave out any details."

 "He wore a suit... He looked about four or five years older than us and carried this long sword with him. But...he never used it. He could manipulate shadows too. I think ― wait, what is it?" John frowned as the son of Hades sighed and muttered something darkly under his breath. From the look in his pale eyes, he was angry and annoyed at something.

 "That was Mycroft, John. My brother."

 This threw the blond for a moment. "Your―? Sorry, your _brother_?" Of all the explanations he could have received, this was certainly not one he had expected. It was strange to picture Sherlock with an older brother.

 "Yes, my brother." Sherlock frowned after a brief moment, thinking hard. "What did he say to you?"

 "He said he was worried about you and told me to stay away. Something about causing you to get into trouble," John answered honestly. "I don't know why, though. Did I do something wrong?"

 The dark-haired boy sighed heavily. "He's always nosing his way into other people's businesses. I doubt that it was your fault. Did he say anything else? Anything useful?"

 "Uh, no. Just that, really."

 Sherlock sighed once more and muttered, "Oh, come on. Mycroft must have said _something._ He does love to talk."

 John shook his head, trying to remember anything that would please the boy. "I don't think he said anything else, to be honest. Is he a demigod?"

 "He's a minor god," explained the teenager, leaning forward and fixing his gaze on his food. He had yet to touch his dinner. "Son of Pluto, the Roman aspect of Hades. He does love to be dramatic about it."

 John frowned, trying to comprehend his words. "Wait, his ' _Roman_  aspect'? Aren't there only _Greek_ gods?"

 "There are many other types of gods, John. Did you really think that Greek myths were the only ones that mattered? The Roman ones exist too, and so do others."

 Honestly, he hadn't thought much of other myths. If the gods from other religions existed as well, how many different monsters _were_ there in the world? The idea made him feel ill, and he shut his eyes to shake off the feeling before continuing to eat his dinner.

 Sherlock, luckily, didn't appear to have observed his brief nausea. He was focused on his food, still talking out loud and not seeming to care who heard him.

 "If Mycroft thinks that you're going to be trouble, he wouldn't have come for my sake. It must be a matter with the major gods. Something is coming, then. But what? What does it have to do with you?"

 "Wait, what? I don't understand," John said, interrupting his cabin mate. "What do you mean? Why would something be coming?"

 Sherlock shook his head, clearly trying to figure this out for himself. "The gods don't like to trouble themselves with mortals and demigods unless absolutely necessary, John. The fact that they believe a new demigod is going to be trouble or get others into trouble means that something big must be happening. I knew you were different, but this is another matter entirely. What would they be concerned about with you?"

 John shrugged and watched the boy struggling to piece together this mystery in a quiet voice. His own head was still whirling with all of these theories and revelations, and he wondered how on earth Sherlock managed to keep up with it all. Why would the gods possibly be interested in _him_? He wasn't very threatening or terrifying. He barely kept track of all these gods and rules for this new life in his head at times. If he was supposedly going to be trouble, they probably wouldn't have a rough time taking care of him.

 Suddenly the old feeling of unease crept back into his heart. He could feel eyes on the back of his head and he bit his lip, wondering whether he should turn to look. The feeling lingered after a few moments and he quickly made up his mind, glancing quickly back over his shoulder, scanning the tables for the person staring.

 His heart rate sped up a little as he locked eyes with an all-too-familiar pair of dark brown eyes. He glared at Moriarty, trying to ignore the irritation rising inside of him at the sight of the teen's smirk. What the hell did he want?

 Moriarty's smirk only grew, to John's annoyance. Something about John's reaction appeared to please him.

  _Prat._ John turned away, vowing to deal with the boy during Capture the Flag. There was no use getting angry about it just yet. He'd just have to trust that his team had a plan for tonight's game.

 

\---

 

 "Alright, gather around!" Greg waved at the campers, who were all decked out in armor, gripping their choices in weaponry at their sides. In the light of the setting sun, the bronze armor glittered like wet coins. John was surprised by the amount of demigods on one team alone. How on earth did Chiron manage to keep track of them all?

 He stood beside Sherlock and Greg, fidgeting in his armor as the demigods began to quiet down. Spotting the Apollo kids, John felt a smile tug at his lips. Mark met his gaze and winked knowingly.

 Chiron had just finished telling them the rules and was now repeating the same regulations for the other team not sixty feet away. They all were going to head into the forest to begin the game in a few minutes after the teams discussed their strategies before the madness started. Judging by how many campers were on the other team as well, he guessed that they were having a difficult time getting quiet too. Everyone seemed anxious to get going.

 Greg nodded at the blonde girl beside him who was clutching the large flag with the emblem of an owl upon it. She nodded back, as if giving him permission to speak, and the son of Dionysus turned back to the group.

 "Right! Well I am only going to say this once because we don't have enough time before the game starts, so listen up! We're trying a new strategy tonight. Instead of having Hecate on offense like we planned, you're going to be on defense with Demeter near the creek. The flag will be by Zeus' Fist, and we're going to have the two guards set up about fifty feet away on either side. Athena and Apollo are going to attack from the center in a charge, but that's going to be a distraction. I'm going to lead a small group to get the flag and the rest of you will have to keep the other team busy."

 A boy with shaggy brown hair near Greg groaned. "The last time we tried to distract the other team, Ares ended up _destroying_ us. This plan won't work."

 To John's surprise, Sherlock spoke up, "Clearly routine has made you lazy, Anderson. I think it's rather obvious why the strategy has been changed, don't you think?"

 John could hear several murmurs and someone rolled their eyes nearby. It was clear that they had heard Sherlock's deductions before, and didn't appear to like them, which was understandable. Greg tensed slightly, glancing at Sherlock warningly, as if saying, _Please don't do something stupid._

 Anderson snorted, crossing his arms over his armored chest. "Oh, really? Do tell." Sarcasm was blatantly heard in his voice, but the son of Hades just ignored it.

 "If Lestrade is changing the strategy back to one we have previously used, that must mean that something has come up to bring about this change. Something about the other team, perhaps? I'm assuming that if we are using a failed strategy, the other team must have made a last-minute change and he knows it. There must be a catch to this plan because he wouldn't send us out there on a suicide mission, yes? So, in conclusion, the other team has a new strategy and we will be doing what they least expect: using a former strategy to distract them."

 All was quiet for a moment before Anderson scoffed, "That sounds like Minotaur crap to me."

 John gripped his bow tighter, annoyed with this boy. Sherlock didn't even flinch and it made him wonder if he was used to these types of accusations. Then he recalled the conversation in the cab two nights ago, recalling how surprised the boy was to his reaction to the observations. _He probably deals with this constantly_ , John realized with a pang of guilt.

 "Actually, that's true." Greg glared at the demigod. "I heard that Ares came up with a new strategy where they intend on sending a group to distract us before taking the flag. They won't expect us to use a similar strategy, so that's exactly what we'll do. Anymore questions?"

 No one dared speak up. John inwardly marveled at the degree of authority he had over the campers.

 "Good. Sally, George, and Adam will be the ones heading for the flag with me. The guards we have set up for tonight are Sherlock and Deidre. Everyone else, you're working on distracting the other team. If you discover where the group searching for the flag is, feel free to break away and stop them. Everyone clear?"

 Everyone nodded, but John felt a little uneasy. He felt like there was something Lestrade wasn't telling the others, judging by his tight-lipped smile. He glanced at Sherlock but the boy merely gave him an amused look.

  _Fat load of help you are._ John sighed to himself.

 None of the group spoke a word when Chiron led the teams into the forest. They didn't go too far in but an eerie feeling slowly crept up John's neck, like he was being watched closely. He suddenly wondered what on earth he had gotten himself into. What was he supposed to do during the game? He was technically a child of Apollo, but he didn't feel the need to join the cabin in their duties.

 "The creek is the boundary line," called out the centaur as each team moved to their side of the creek. "Once you pass over to the opposite side, you are in the other team's territory. Position your flags and let the game begin!"

 John followed his team into the forest, fighting the urge to look over his shoulder constantly, and eyed the quiver he had been given. There were all sorts of arrows inside with different colored tips or feathers. He wasn't sure what the colors and feather meant, but he felt like they were important.

 "Orange feathers indicate for the sonic arrow," came a sudden voice. John nearly jumped out of his skin before glaring at his grinning brothers.

 "What's that?"

 Mark pulled a feather with orange feathers out of his own quiver as Garrett spoke. "A sonic arrow. They give off this loud blast of sound that stuns demigods and sometimes it can kill monsters. They're not common, though, so we only have a couple hundred at camp."

 John studied the arrow in the boy's hand. It didn't appear extraordinary, other than the different feathers.

 "Do all of the arrows have some sort of power?"

 Garrett shrugged. "Some, yeah. A few of us got them as gifts from our old man himself, but they run out faster than you'd think."

 "Wait, you got them from Apollo?"

 Garrett nodded. John wondered what you had to do to receive a gift from your godly parent before quickly dismissing that thought. Not that he cared whether he got a gift or not. He didn't want anything to do with his father.

 Mark nudged the smaller boy. "So, ready to distract the other team? I'm sure we could put those lovely arrows to good use. Annoying the Ares cabin isn't something we get to do often."

 "I guess." John wasn't sure how to respond. _Was_ he ready?

 He caught sight of Molly talking to a blonde boy up ahead and was surprised when she glanced back, meeting his gaze. She gave him a small wave and he returned the gesture. The boy said something to the brunette, causing her to turn away once more.

 "You'll do fine," Mark was saying. "After all, Greg's not usually wrong when he says the other team changed their plans or whatever. Might be something to do with Holmes, though."

 At the mention of his cabin mate, John's head whipped back to the boy. "With Sherlock? What do you mean?"

 "He usually is the one that tells Greg that Ares has something planned," explained Garrett with a shrug. "Does that weird thing where he studies the other team and suddenly knows their strategy."

 "Oh." John glanced back at the son of Hades, who was walking by Greg silently. He wondered if that was why Sherlock hadn't told him about the plan. Did he know that Greg was hiding something too?

 After another minute, the largest pile of rocks John had ever seen came into view. From this angle, the pile looked suspiciously like a fist.

 "There it is!" Mark slung an arm around his shoulders. "Zeus' Fist. It's not as easy as it looks to climb up there, so I dare say we've got a good spot."

 "Although it looks more like a pile of deer droppings, if you ask me," whispered Garrett with a mischievous grin.

 Greg and his group immediately formed together as the girl carrying the flag scampered to the top of the rock pile. "You know the plan, so stick to it! Get to your positions quickly!"

 John hesitated, glancing at where the Athena and Apollo cabins were beginning to gather, drawing their weapons. Something told him this wouldn't end well. That eerie feeling of being watched hadn't subsided, and he wondered if that was normal. Maybe he was just being paranoid.

 After all, it was only a game. What could go wrong?

 The two cabins charged through the forest towards the creek and John sighed. No use disobeying orders. He ran after them, praying that the children of Ares (who he remembered was the god of war) weren't nearly as brutal as they sounded.

 Unfortunately, they appeared to be just as bad as they had been described. He immediately spotted a group of large burly kids charging for them, wielding spears and swords, and knew exactly who their father was. Cursing his luck, John drew an arrow from his quiver, not paying attention to which one he chose, and readied it without a second thought as he ran. It was a miracle that he didn't trip over a tree root while nocking the arrow.

 As the two groups clashed, John took a deep breath and fired the arrow into the chaos. His eyes widened in shock when the arrow shot from the bowstring faster than the speed of light, blurring as it struck an Ares kid's helmet, knocking it clean off. His brothers definitely hadn't been kidding when they had said that some of the arrows had special abilities.

 This gained him unwanted attention, however. That particular boy locked eyes with him, his eyes narrowed in anger. John felt like a rabbit looking into the eyes of a fearsome grizzly bear.

 The boy charged for him and John snapped out of his daze, swiftly pulling another arrow out (it had the same color feathers as the previous one, he noted). He vaguely registered what he was doing, allowing his gut feeling to take over instead of his head.

 "I'm going to cream you!" growled the angry demigod, brandishing his broadsword as he drew closer.

 John let the arrow fly, smiling a bit too widely as the speed and impact of the arrow sent the boy stumbling backwards. He charged forward as the gut feeling surged, punching the son of Ares in the face with all the force he could. The satisfying _crack_ indicated that the boy's nose was broken.

 He wandered away before he could get attacked by the boy again, firing a few more arrows into the mass of fighting demigods. Admittedly, this wasn't as bad as he had thought it would be. Adrenaline raced through his veins as he joined his brothers and sisters side-by-side, barely paying attention to what he was doing.

 Then he was blown off his feet by the weight of a large boy tackling him. John let out a gasp and tried to pry the kid off him, feeling something wet drip onto his neck.

 "You think you're big and bad?" The voice belonged to the boy he'd first fired at. Damn, he was having a bad day. "No one punches me and gets away with it!"

 "Is that supposed to scare me? Because that sounds rather stupid, if you ask me." _Do you have a death wish?_   he wondered.

 The Ares kid rolled off of him, swinging his sword ferociously at his head. John rolled in the opposite direction, scrambling for something to fight properly with. All he had was his bow, but that was no good in close combat.

 He dodged another swing and dove for a fallen sword, grimacing at how heavy the weapon was. It would have to do for the moment.

 When the boy swung for a third time, he ducked and proceeded to block the next strike the best he could with the new weapon. Seeing how hard it was to lift the simple sword, John knew he was going to get creamed. The boy knew it too because he smiled wickedly and lashed out quickly. John barely had enough time to block the swing, hands aching with each second that he lifted the heavy weapon.

 "Pathetic!" The boy was sweating profusely and his nose was bleeding, but he appeared to be enjoying himself.

 John dropped the sword after the next swing, scrambling to fire an arrow in hopes of distracting the boy. The Ares kid laughed, guessing what he was trying to do, and kicked out at the blond. John gasped in pain as the foot connected with his stomach, gritting his teeth as he nocked an arrow.

 "Maybe next time you'll think twice before messing with me," sneered the demigod.

 Before John could react, a new sword swung at the boy, surprising him as he quickly blocked the attack. John was startled to see that the attacker was none other than Molly. It was a little unnerving to see the fierce expression on her face; she seemed like the type of girl who was nice to everyone.

 Not wanting her efforts to be wasted, John fired the arrow as the two fought, striking the boy on the knee. It was a regular arrow, but he was sure that it still hurt like hell. Judging from the boy's expression, his guess was correct. Molly drove him to one knee as he cried out in pain, her sword at his throat.

 "Uh, thanks," John managed to say through his panting.

 Molly smiled warmly as the boy surrendered, submitting himself as a prisoner. They _were_ on their team's side still. "No problem. Perhaps a balanced blade would help...?"

 John scratched the back of his sweaty neck in embarrassment. "Yeah, probably."

 The daughter of Athena's eyes suddenly widened and she moved closer with a frown. "Did you hurt yourself?"

 "What?" He realized she was staring at his neck, where the Ares boy's bloody nose had dripped. "Oh, that isn't my blood! That's his."

 "Oh!" Molly seemed a bit surprised, but also relieved. "I was worried that he'd tried to kill you for a moment."

 John chuckled, glancing back at the campers still fighting. "Nope, I'm alright." He frowned, spotting a large boy with a blond buzz cut charging past the fighting, heading in the direction of the flag. Did no one see him?

 "I'll be back," he found himself muttering to Molly before he raced after the boy. He quickly readied another arrow, allowing that familiar feeling to take over once more, and judged the distance between the two of them. They were about forty feet apart, not too close, but he guessed that if he grabbed the boy's attention with a warning shot, the boy would turn to fight him. He'd prefer that option to him getting the flag truthfully.

 The boy must have guessed that someone was trailing him because he sped up, drawing his sword. Wearing this heavy armor didn't exactly help too; it was making so much noise that he could only vaguely hear his footsteps on the ground.

 John fired the arrow and watched as it sped past the boy's ear, hitting the tree next to him. The blond stopped and turned as he had expected, seeming amused. As he drew closer, John realized that the boy seemed at least three years older and almost a head taller than he was. Why were these kids so huge? If this was what Ares' children looked like, he would hate to see the god himself.

 "That's cute," said the boy, waiting patiently for his opponent. "Was that supposed to be a warning shot?"

 "Yep." John was already getting another arrow ready as he drew closer, slower now. He knew he couldn't underestimate this kid. This one seemed smarter than he looked.

 The boy with the buzz cut chuckled as if he were an amusing little kid vying for attention. "Figures. I suppose Jim was right about you."

 "Jim? What―?"

 The name sank in and his grip on the dark wood of the bow tightened considerably. "What the hell are you talking about?"

 "Loyal like a soldier boy," he said mockingly. "He's off getting the flag now, I'd reckon. Can't resist playing games with Sherlock Holmes, after all."

  _Sherlock._ John wanted to curse his stupidity. Of course Moriarty was going after Sherlock. He'd completely forgotten about the bugger in his eagerness to start the game.

 Just then, a loud squawk echoed through the forest, coming from Zeus' Fist. Both boys looked at each other simultaneously and took off in that direction. Something queasy made its way to John's gut.

 "What was that?" he snapped.

 The boy actually seemed scared for the first time. "It's not possible... Monsters can't get inside the camp borders! There's no way..."

 A monster? Oh, good. Just what he needed to complete his day.

 They quickly emerged in the clearing near Zeus' Fist and something lodged itself in John's throat. A strange winged creature with the body of a black panther, the face and feet of a raven, and beady red eyes was swooping down towards Sherlock, Moriarty, and a girl with braided black hair. The flag sat on top of the pile of rocks, completely forgotten for the moment in light of the greater threat. The girl had long scratches on her arms, indicating that the thing had attacked her first.

 Both boys sprang into action, running onto the scene with their weapons ready. John hurriedly fired the arrow he had prepared for the son of Ares and the other boy pulled the girl out of harm's way as the ugly creature dove again. The arrow missed one of the wings by an inch, but it alerted the monster to his presence. The winged monster turned to John and dove, claws outstretched.

  _Dammit._ John rolled to the side, scrambling for another arrow, and he thought heard someone yell his name for a second. His fingers yanked back the bowstring and he turned to fire right as something sharp clamped onto his shoulder. It felt like a dozen needles were jammed into his skin, a gasp leaving his lips as his grip relaxed on the bowstring.

 He turned his head the best he could through the pain in time to see the creature about to grab his other shoulder, the other claw being the cause of his agony. With great effort, he weakly fired his readied arrow at the creature.

 He definitely did not expect the great roar of music blasted into his ears the moment the arrow was released. The monster wailed as the arrow struck its leg, but did not let go of John. Instead, it burst into dust like the hellhound had when Sherlock had fought it the night they met, leaving behind only the claw that was still stuck in his shoulder.

 Exhausted and in pain, he collapsed to his knees, letting go of his weapon to yank at the claw with both hands. He knew that he had to get the thing out, but it just wouldn't budge.

 "John!" His head snapped up as he spotted Sherlock's curly head beside him, something strange crossing his features. The boy spotted the embedded claw and motioned for him to remain still as he slowly hacked away at the bloody thing. He managed to pry it out of the blond in a few moments, which didn't ease the pain as John had expected. If anything, the pain grew worse and he started to bleed a little.

 "Is it deep?" Sherlock inquired. Was the boy actually _concerned_ for his well-being? The thought of the boy caring was touching.

 "I don't think so. It'll probably stop bleeding soon." John glanced around, noting with distaste that the others appeared to be watching them. "What happened?"

 "That gryphon just appeared from nowhere," piped up the dark-haired girl. She rubbed her arm, eyeing John's wounded shoulder with a bit of worry. "It shouldn't have been able to get past the camp's borders, though. I don't understand..."

 Sherlock rolled his eyes, seeming a little annoyed. "Obviously something is wrong with the magical boundaries then, or someone let this monster into the camp. It isn't that hard to understand."

 John shot the boy a look and the son of Hades went quiet. Now wasn't the time to get angry with each other.

 He stood shakily with Sherlock's help, removing his armor despite the boy's protests. He didn't care if he wasn't supposed to do that: he was _injured,_ for Pete's sake! He tore off a bit of his orange shirt to stop the wound from bleeding, pressing it firmly against his shoulder. Glancing up, he remembered the girl's injury and asked, "Is yours deep?"

 Seeming surprised that he had asked, she shook her head. "Just feels like a scratch. Those claws are pretty sharp, though."

 John snorted. "No kidding."

 The blond with the buzz cut frowned, seeming confused. "I think someone let that gryphon in. The camp's borders don't seem to be having issues as of late."

 "True." John nearly jumped at the sound of Moriarty so near. He was only a few feet away, looking at John with an unreadable expression. "However, this doesn't seem like your typical practical joke where the Hermes kids let in a couple of scorpions to tease the Aphrodite girls. Gryphons live farther up north, not near Long Island. Whoever let them in was hoping to scare people."

 "Scare people? Why would they do that?" John found himself asking.

 Moriarty shrugged. "Who knows?" he replied in that creepy singsong tone.

 There was a noise coming from the trees, and all of the teens turned instinctively. It was only Chiron and the rest of the camp, the former looking about suspiciously, his eyes finding the mound of dust near John instantly.

 "What happened?"

 "A gryphon attacked," Sherlock said before the others could. "It scratched Deidre and injured John before he destroyed it."

 Chiron glanced between the two hurt campers, something flickering in his eyes. For some reason, the centaur appeared older in the evening light. He shut his eyes after a moment before opening them again slowly.

 "They must have let it in to distract us! They would have had the flag if not for the gryphon!" a girl on the other team cried out. John was confused for a moment before he noticed that Greg was gripping a large flag in one hand. Oh. They'd won.

 "Obviously not." Moriarty and Sherlock said at the same time, which was more than a little unnerving. The two glanced at each other before Sherlock continued. "Why would we have sent a monster to attack our own teammates? That doesn't make sense."

 The girl glowered at Sherlock and opened her mouth to argue, but Chiron stopped her. "He has a point. I do not think anyone allowed this monster to enter the camp. Anyone in this camp, that is..."

 John frowned as the words sank in, noting the look of weariness in the centaur's eyes. He was hiding something from them, perhaps already suspecting whoever was behind this incident. Was everyone here hiding secrets from people? Glancing over, he saw that Sherlock's eyes were narrowed as he too stared at Chiron. The boy was clearly trying to figure out what the centaur knew too.

 "Everyone head back to your cabins. Curfew is almost here anyway, so remember to stay indoors or the cleaning harpies will find you."

 With that, Chiron rode off, leaving everyone to return to their respectful cabins after a few moments of whispering and hesitation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terribly sorry for the long wait. Life got in the way (as well as bloody plot holes). I was trying to fit Capture the Flag into the same chapter as Mycroft's lovely visit, but it was a bit difficult (who knew writing fight scenes took forever?). Nonetheless, I hope you enjoyed it!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John learns something without Sherlock's help, and biscuits are accepted.

 The moment John was released from the Apollo cabin's kids (who had insisted on checking their fellow demigod brother's shoulder to make sure that he was alright, no matter how many times he insisted that _he was fine_ ) he hurried back to the Hades cabin in earnest. After the attack and Mycroft's warning, there was no way that he could hide the fact that something was wrong. What if that voice in his nightmares was actually trying to help him? What if they were trying to warn him about that threat all along? He couldn't help but wonder if his cabin mate had noticed his predicament with the dreams, and then quickly stopped that train of thought before it could delve further. This was Sherlock _bloody_ Holmes: of _course_ he had probably noticed!

 John ignored some odd looks he received from a pair of Demeter's children and burst into the dark cabin, hating how he couldn't see anything in the inky darkness immediately. He vowed to secretly purchase a torch ― no, a _flashlight,_ as Americans called them — in the very near future. He had heard that the children of Hermes were always selling items from the mortal world to people who had enough to pay, perhaps he could get one from them.

 "Sherlock?" He made sure to call out the boy's name first, in case he was asleep (which he considered highly unlikely).

 The lack of response worried John in mere moments. Why wasn't he in the cabin? There was no way that he could have faked being asleep as the son of Apollo called for him. Curiosity would have gotten the better of the teen and they would already be discussing tonight's events at this point.

 "The hell - ?" John bit back a groan and ran a hand through his hair. He didn't want to sneak out in order to find the demigod, but Sherlock was offering him no other choice. "Oh, you bastard..."

 He hurried out of the cabin, shutting the door as quietly as possible. He was grateful that he had not put away his bow and quiver just yet, the reassuring weight of the weapon in his hand giving him more confidence. He snuck around to hide behind the wall of the cabin, watching as the last of the campers head off to bed. While he had no intention of finding out what the cleaning harpies did to anyone out of their cabins after dark, if the son of Hades was missing he couldn't just stay put and not look for Sherlock.

 After waiting a few minutes, John looked around, watching for any sign of the teen. Where would he even be? If he were a genius like Sherlock, what would he do after being attacked by a gryphon?

  _Find out where it came from, obviously_ , a voice that sounded suspiciously like the very boy he was thinking of said.

 John felt like slamming his head into the cabin wall as this sank in. Did this boy have a _death wish?_ (No pun intended)

 He shot for the woods, gripping his bow tightly as he scanned the trees before immersing himself in the darkness. The blond had heard what some of the kids said about the forest, about how monsters were free to lurk inside and no one should venture alone into its depths. Obviously Sherlock was going to look there in case the creature had come from the woods instead of being sent by someone.

 The teen frowned as he continued deeper into the forest. It was difficult for him to see anything in the dark. If only Apollo had chosen to claim him _now_ , then his glow could have lit up his surroundings easily.

 No sooner had he thought this before a warm familiar tingling spread through his body, racing up his spine as light spilled from all over his body just as it had yesterday. John yelped and swore quietly, nearly dropping his bow in shock. How the hell had that happened? Was it because he had been thinking about the incident? He had thought this was over now that his father had claimed him, but apparently that wasn't so.

 Glancing around, he didn't spot anyone or anything nearby. Good. Now he just needed to figure out how to control this strange ability.

 John sucked in a shaky breath and stared at the hand not grasping his bow. He concentrated on focusing the light within the palm of this hand, removing the glow from around his body. It took a minute before he realized the pulsing aura was gone, instead contained in a small ball of light in his hand, and he sighed in relief.

 So it did respond to his thoughts. John chewed on his lower lip, gazing intently on the ball of light in his palm. Could all children of the sun god do this, or was he an exception?

 Curious now, he focused on gently tossing the orb up a few feet into the air and his blue eyes widened when he succeeded. Aside from the tingling throughout his hand, it felt as if he were holding an ordinary ball.

 "Fascinating," he muttered, a smile tugging at his lips.

 The smile vanished, however, as he realized he had no clue how he was going to tell Chiron and the other campers about this. What was he supposed to say? "Well, I was out after curfew and realized that I can control light, is that normal?"

 Somehow he had a nagging feeling that he probably shouldn't bring this up just yet. Best keep it quiet for now.

 It took him a couple of moments to focus on lessening the amount of light being given off before John resumed his search for his friend. He was careful to keep the ball of light close to his chest in case any monster decided he looked good enough to rip apart. His shoulder ached dully in remembrance of the gryphon not too long ago and he gritted his teeth. Definitely needed to be more careful this time around when wandering through the woods.

  _When I find Sherlock Holmes, I am going to throttle him for running off like this_ , John thought internally, eyes narrowing.

 

\---

 

 He was ready to give up after about twenty minutes of searching through the forest when he spotted a faint beam of light not far to his left. Frowning, John wandered in that direction, extinguishing his orb of light and relying on his senses and the glow ahead to guide him onward. Curiosity led him closer and he hesitated before entering the clearing where the light was coming from.

 It wasn't Sherlock that he found. He knew this immediately upon glancing at the back of a head of dark hair that certainly was not curly - although with the pale skin he could have been mistaken for the son of Hades at a glance. The stranger had a flashlight in his hand and before John could see what he was looking at, the teen turned and aimed it right in his eyes. Strangely, he could see fairly well even then and his heart dropped once he realized who he had discovered instead.

 "You."

 Moriarty raised an eyebrow, a small smirk gracing his lips. Of all the people he could have stumbled upon, the son of Eris was definitely not one he had considered.

 "Well, what do we have _here_? _Johnny boy_  wandering all _alone_ through the woods _after_ bedtime? Aren't you _naughty_?"

 Like the last time, he could feel his blood pressure rising at the sound of the boy's singsong tone. _Don't let him get to you. That's what he wants._ He forced himself to speak in a much calmer voice than he normally would. "You're one to talk. What the hell are you doing out here anyway?"

 Moriarty clucked his tongue, lowering the flashlight and stepping closer. The blond's eyes narrowed but he stood his ground. Everything about this teen got on his nerves, creating goosebumps that spread all over his body.

 "Just doing some _investigating._ Nothing to _worry_ your little head about."

 John frowned. "Investigating what? The gryphon incident?"

 "Oh, aren't _you_ clever?" Those dark eyes were still boring into him even as the son of Eris chuckled. "But you still haven't answered _my_ question, Johnny."

 "That's none of your business," the blond said, his voice coming out much angrier than he had intended. His mind was clouded like it had been during their first encounter and he shook his head to try and clear the fog. He wasn't going to let this boy intimidate him so easily, nor mess with his emotions.

 Moriarty chuckled again. "Oh, Johnny boy. You're so _easy_ to read, like an open book! You're looking for someone, aren't you? I bet it's _Sherlock._ "

 Damn, this kid was just as bad as Sherlock got when reading somebody. He gritted his teeth, trying not to let his hands clench into fists blatantly.

 The teen edged closer, about half a foot away. His intense gaze was locked with John's even now. "It's cute, really. You two. Are you _friends_ , Johnny boy? Or do you get so _defensive_ around everybody?"

 "Stop calling me that."

 Mirth snuck into his dark eyes. "Calling you _what_?"

 "You know what, you prat."

 Moriarty smiled wide as if the blond had just told him a funny story. "Ooh, someone has some _bite._ Is that why Sherlock likes you? Are you his guard dog?"

 He was unbelievably close to throttling the kid at this point.

 Before he could try and get his emotions under control (or at least think of a witty retort), the dark-haired boy froze, staring at something behind John. "What is that...?"

 He didn't know if this was some kind of prank or not, but John turned instinctively anyway and a frown crossed his face. There was a faint light in the distance, almost level with some of the higher tree branches. They weren't too deep into the woods so he guessed that it was coming from outside the woods.

 Moriarty slowly started forward, his footsteps silent on the forest floor as he headed towards the glow. John contemplated letting him go but he too was intrigued by the light and ended up following the teen. He nearly ran into the son of Eris once or twice and wished his vision wasn't so awful in the dark that he could use his newfound ability. However he had no intention in giving Moriarty another thing to dissect him over. So he kept quiet and a careful eye on the boy's movements.

 The boy's gaze was just as intense as when he was staring at John moments ago. It was as if he were in his own little world, focused solely on his mission up ahead. John noted that it was also odd when Moriarty wasn't speaking; the forest felt unnervingly silent without anyone speaking. He was tempted to clear his throat and see if it broke the boy's concentration or the silence.

 The two arrived at the border of the dark forest and watched as three strangely-shaped shadows slid past the building ahead. Judging by their high-pitched squawks, John assumed that these were the cleaning harpies Chiron had mentioned. He frowned when he realized the light they had been following was coming from the sky-blue house (which he recalled one of the campers call "the Big House"), a little disappointed.

 "Chiron isn't in there," Moriarty said, startling the blond. His gaze was still fixed on the house. "I saw him head to the front of the camp not thirty minutes ago. He's probably checking the borders to see if there are any weak spots."

 "So, what does that mean about the lights being on?"

 Moriarty glanced at him with a raised eyebrow. "Come on, Johnny. You're much more clever than that. You tell _me_."

 John clenched his jaw and turned back to the Big House. He spotted two shadows behind the curtains, both not realizing they were being watched by two teenagers.

 "Someone isn't supposed to be in there."

 "Very _good_." John rolled his eyes at the mocking tone the boy used. "I wonder who that could be... Well, one way to find out!"

 Without warning Moriarty bolted toward the Big House, John staring at him open-mouthed in surprise. The dark-haired boy ducked behind a bush by the porch, flashing a grin back at the son of Apollo.

 "You've _got_ to be kidding me," John growled, eyes darting to the windows. Neither of the people inside seemed to have noticed the quick movement. He sighed internally and glanced at Moriarty, who was clearly expecting him to do the same.

 " _Bastard_."

 John sucked in a deep breath and ran as fast as he could toward the other boy's hiding spot. He wasn't nearly as swift or quiet, but by the time he had crouched beside the teen, he hadn't heard any sign of the people inside the Big House hearing him.

 "Well, that wasn't _so hard,_ was it, Johnny boy?"

 "Shut it, Moriarty," he snapped, edging a bit farther away from the boy.

 The dark-haired teen smirked. "Just _asking._ "

 John opened his mouth to give him a piece of his mind, but the sound of the door to the Big House opening caused him to go silent. They both held perfectly still, listening for any sign of being found out. After a minute, the door shut again and the blond sighed in relief.

 "Wait, if someone is in the Big House when they're not supposed to be, then why would they be there?"

 Moriarty shrugged. "Who knows? Nicking supplies, pranking Chiron for entertainment, maybe visiting the Oracle on a dare - "

 "Sorry, the what?"

 The boy sighed but before he could reply, a soft female voice from nearby made them both freeze. "I can hear you, dears. No need to hide."

 John tightened his grip on his bow, memories of being hunted down by deceptively sweet six-headed snakes in disguise running through his mind. Glancing at Moriarty, he saw the son of Eris was also hesitant to make an appearance. _Well, only one way to find out, I suppose._

 He rose slowly and found himself facing a rather short woman who looked to be in her sixties at the latest. She had a kind smile and gave an unladylike snort at his expression. "Really, now. Hiding in the bushes like a thief in the night? What are you doing out of bed, young man?"

 Was she a demigod? A friend of Chiron's? After the gryphon incident, he wasn't sure what to do. He noticed Moriarty hesitantly stand beside him, causing the woman to raise an eyebrow. "Oh, _two_ of you? Well, best bring you inside for now. It's rather chilly out here, although perhaps it's just me."

 The two demigods exchanged baffled looks before entering the Big House. John's eyes widened when he caught sight of who was in the same room he had been brought to not two nights prior. "Sherlock?"

 The son of Hades stood from where he had been sitting and he frowned at the sight of Moriarty. "What are you both doing up?"

 "Should be asking _you_ that question, Sherlock," Moriarty said, his eyes growing almost owlishly wide.

 "I always tell him to go to sleep, but he insists on visiting," the woman chimed in, startling John as she passed them to head into the next room. "Although I must admit, it does get rather lonely sometimes. At least I'm not in that cave like Chiron said the last one was residing in. Oh, dear - that would _definitely_ have been a turn-off."

 John turned back to his friend, eyes now narrowing. "Wait a minute, have you not been sleeping this whole time? You've been out here with...uh - "

 "Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said helpfully. The almost bored look in his eyes suggested that the blond wasn't wrong. This only served to make John angrier.

 "Sherlock, you need to sleep. I can't believe you let me think that you had a normal sleeping schedule!"

 "Well, you sleep like a log, John. It's not exactly difficult to pop on over to the Big House. Chiron has long since grown to accept these visits."

 John crossed his arms over his chest as the older woman ( _Mrs. Hudson_ , as Sherlock had called her) returned with a tray of biscuits. "He knows about this and he just _lets you_ do this? Unbelievable."

 "What are you doing up then?" Sherlock countered, his gaze turning stern. "And with Moriarty?"

 "Well, that's a bit _rude_ , Sherlock." Both of them ignored the son of Eris.

 "I _was_ looking for _you._ I just happened to run into him."

 Mrs. Hudson cleared her throat, interrupting whatever Sherlock had been about to say. "Biscuits, boys? Anyone hungry?"

 All three demigods begrudgingly took a couple of biscuits once the woman set down the tray on the table. John thanked her politely, ignoring the eye rolls from the other two. Moriarty moved to the sofa and lounged on it as if he were a king comfortable in his throne. The very thought of this made the son of Apollo feel uneasy.

 "So, um, Mrs. Hudson, are you a demigod?" John asked, hating how his voice cracked on the last word nervously. Mrs. Hudson smiled kindly at him, not seeming to notice.

 "Oh, no. I'm mortal, dear. I don't believe I caught your name, what did you say it was?"

 "John Watson. Wait, if you're mortal then...?"

 Sherlock sighed as if it were obvious. "She can see through the Mist, John."

 That wasn't what he had been trying to ask, but the answer still intrigued him. "You can see through the Mist?"

 Moriarty sniggered quietly. "Oh, she can see _much more_ than that, Johnny boy." He didn't like the mocking tone that the teen used when he said this.

 "Don't call me that."

 "Boys, be nice," Mrs. Hudson scolded gently. "James, please sit properly on the sofa. It isn't a bed. I don't want you getting crumbs all over it."

 John hide his smirk by eating another biscuit, noting that Sherlock's lips were twitching as if he too wanted to smirk. The son of Eris sighed, looking a little cowed by the stern look on the woman's face before sitting upright.

 Mrs. Hudson clasped her hands together, eyes sweeping over the three boys. "Don't get too comfortable now. Chiron should be back soon and he'll want to know why you both are up and out of bed."

 Moriarty snorted once the woman headed back towards what John assumed was the kitchen. "She gets a bit annoying sometimes."

 "You could at least _try_ to be polite," John said under his breath. He didn't miss how Sherlock played off a small laugh by coughing.

 "Oh, aren't you on a roll," Moriarty muttered. He shot the son of Hades a glare, but the latter simply chose to ignore it.

 John turned to Sherlock, still wanting answers. "So, if she's mortal, why is she here at camp?"

 A snicker from Moriarty caused the blond to grind his teeth together in frustration. "You really didn't explain this to him? And here I thought you both were pals, _Sherlock._ "

 Sherlock said nothing, his expression blank and unreadable. They could hear Mrs. Hudson talking to herself in the kitchen.

 "Do you ever shut up?" John growled, not intending the boy to hear him.

 Sherlock shot him a warning look, clearly telling him not to bait Moriarty, but the latter only seemed delighted by the outburst. "Dear me, he _is_ rather loyal, isn't he? Did you train him?"

 John was about to snap and give the bastard a piece of his mind but Mrs. Hudson entered the room again. This time she appeared to be carrying a smaller tray with cups of tea on it. "Just in case you boys needed a cup of tea. That always soothes me before I go to sleep." John thanked her again, shooting a glare at Moriarty when the latter smirked.

 Having had his question unanswered twice, he decided to ask the more willing of the group.

 "Mrs. Hudson?"

 "Yes, dear?" She pressed a hand to her forehead, frowning for a second. "Sherlock, would you mind getting me a chair? I think I'm feeling a little faint."

 Sherlock's eyes widened a little and he headed to the kitchen to get one with poorly-hidden eagerness. Mrs. Hudson actually rolled her eyes at this. "He always gets excited whenever he thinks I am going to have one of my _episodes_. I think it's because it's been so long since I've had one."

 "One month too long for you to wait, Sherlock?" Moriarty called, smirking at the look on the son of Hades' face.

 "Play nice, James."

 " _Episodes_?" John felt as if he were left out of an inside joke. "Sorry, what do you mean by that?"

 Mrs. Hudson sat down once Sherlock set the chair behind her. "Oh, how rude of me! You must be wondering what I'm doing here. Oh, Sherlock, did you not tell him?"

 The boy muttered something under his breath John couldn't understand, sitting beside the blond.

  _He clearly doesn't tell me a lot of things_ , the son of Apollo thought to himself, taking a sip of his tea.

 "Must've been too busy," Moriarty piped up, his smirk still in place.

 "Busy?" Mrs. Hudson turned back to Sherlock in confusion before her mouth set in a wide O. "I had forgotten, silly me! Chiron sent you out into the city, didn't he? That does explain why you didn't visit a few nights ago. What were you doing out there, dear?"

 Sherlock seemed to be gripping his cup tighter than necessary. "Nothing of importance."

 "Were you a _bad boy_?" Moriarty chimed in. His dark eyes glittered with mirth at how the paler boy glowered at him. "Just curious."

 "James, I see you trying to rile him up," Mrs. Hudson told him, her gaze stern again. "Stop trying to cause trouble and drink your tea." John was unable to hide his smile this time as Moriarty gritted his teeth and took a sip from his cup.

 Mrs. Hudson stood and a smile spread over her face. "Ah, I think the feeling is gone now. It's rather nice not to black out every so often. Let me put the tea away, wouldn't want to let it get cold."

 "Here, I'll help you," John said kindly, standing too as she grabbed the tray.

 "Oh, really, dear. I'll be alright, John - "

 The tray crashed to the floor and the cups shattered as Sherlock and Moriarty rose from where they sat. The mortal woman fell to her knees with a cry and John knelt by her, careful to avoid the debris. He laid a hand on her trembling shoulder cautiously. "Mrs. Hudson, are you al-?"

 Before he could finish, the woman suddenly grabbed his shoulders in a death grip. Her head whipped up to face his, her eyes glowing green and the same color smoke pouring out of her mouth. She looked completely different from the sweet lady he had been speaking to a minute ago. He tried to pull away but she only held on tighter, her nails digging into his wound and causing him to cry out in pain.

 "It's happening," he could hear Sherlock say, but he barely had time to comprehend this before Mrs. Hudson opened her mouth to speak. It sounded like there were at least five other female voices in the room as well and he couldn't help but shudder slightly.

  _A quest centuries old is now at hand,_

_Beware the fountain of youth in Hebe's land,_

_Sons of light, death, and chaos listen,_

_Dripping from the gold it glistens,_

_A price to pay for folly of trust,_

_So only choose if you must._

 With one last shuddering breath, the emerald smoke disappeared into Mrs. Hudson's mouth and she blinked rapidly before releasing her grip on John. The boy scrambled back, thoroughly shocked by what he had just witnessed. The woman opened her eyes - which had stopped glowing thankfully - and frowned as she took in the mess and her current position on the floor. The moment she met John's eyes it all seemed to click and her own eyes grew owlishly wide.

 "Oh... Oh dear. It happened, didn't it? I'm so sorry, John dear."

 Moriarty snickered softly at the look on the blond's face. "Johnny boy, meet - "

 "The Oracle," he finished for the son of Eris, his throat unusually dry. He recalled a lesson from school where they had been reading about mythology and one of the things that had come up was a seer who spoke only in prophecies. He felt a little ill as his head spun with what he had just heard. "You're the Oracle."

 Moriarty looked a little surprised at being cut off and Sherlock finally spoke up for the first time in a while. "Yes, John. We'd better tell Chiron there's been a prophecy and a possible quest declared."

 "Only your _second day_ and _already_ you've been treated to a _prophecy_ ," Moriarty said teasingly before exiting the Big House, likely going to get the centaur.

 For what felt like the hundredth time that night, John wanted to throttle the teen. Instead he settled for simply staring at the broken tea cups as Sherlock helped Mrs. Hudson stand. He couldn't help but feel as if whatever he had just heard was a lot bigger deal than either of the boys were making it out to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for not updating for so long. Life got busy and I grew lazy. I'll try to update this more, as I have no intention of abandoning the story. However, I have various other stories so don't expect regular updates anytime soon. The plot is going to pick up very quickly though, so I am hoping to try and get out at least another chapter soon.


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